


Just Coffee

by MaddieStilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Barista Scott, Coffee Shops, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, F/M, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pack Bonding, Police Officer Derek, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 68,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieStilinski/pseuds/MaddieStilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘What?’ he asks as he reaches the counter. Scott just raises his eyebrows.</p><p>‘Nothing dude. Just admiring your tactics.’</p><p>‘What tactics?’ Derek asks, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m getting him coffee.’</p><p>Scott shrugs, starting up the machine. ‘Say what you want Derek, but in my experience it never is ‘just coffee.’’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This is a lovely Tumblr prompt from [Sterekslash21](http://sterekslash21.tumblr.com)  
>  
> 
>  There's coffee, excitement, romance and Scott being really cute because for some reason I love him tonight.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! Enjoy :)
> 
> 'Derek is straight (or thinks he is but no guy has caught his eye, up to you) and is in a relationship with an attractive woman. Derek then sees Stiles one day on the street while Derek is on date with his girlfriend of almost three years. Derek/Stiles don't know each other.'
> 
> Also, I have made a playlist [HERE](http://8tracks.com/samantha145/it-never-is-just-coffee) if you want to know what I listened to when I wrote this :*
> 
> **psssst! This fic is currently getting a few edits. Nothing major will be changed I promise :)**

‘You want another drink?’ Derek picks up his empty coffee cup, balances it on the two already in his hands.

‘Please,’ Rachel replies, looking up briefly from her laptop screen to kiss his cheek. ‘Something different. And preferably without caffeine. I can’t keep up with you.’

‘What were you thinking?’ Derek says, returning her kiss. He leans in just long enough to rest his head on her shoulder so he can glance briefly at the laptop screen, unsurprised to see the familiar Pinterest logo glaring back at him. He watches for a minute as she works, eyes lingering over her perfectly painted nails.

‘Surprise me.’ She laces their fingers together, squeezing his hand gently. Derek brings her hand to his lips, lets them linger across her knuckles before moving away, already missing the feel of her against him.

‘You should know, the last time someone said that, I got them a double expresso.’

Rachel doesn’t even look at Derek before she turns back to her keyboard, laughing. ‘Just surprise me, moron.’

 

Smiling, Derek makes his way down the stairs and over to the counter, feeling so content he can barely keep the smile of his face. Because after three years, Rachel is still the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And the fact that she considers Starbucks an ideal date location makes it all the better.

He puts the cups down on the side and smiles at the Barista, Scott, who knows Derek so well they might as well be related. He talks too much and he has a habit of getting in trouble, but he makes damn good coffee so Derek usually lets it slide.

‘Not more coffee, surely, Derek,’ he says, noticing the three cups already in his hands. ‘Your heart’ll give out.’

‘Fast metabolism,’ Derek mutters, frowning at the drinks menu. ‘And I’m not getting coffee this time. Rachel wants something different.’

Scott wipes the counter with a damp cloth, rolls his eyes when Derek leans against it, his eyes running over the quite frankly unbelievable number of drinks up there.

Scott snorts, follows Derek’s eyes to the menu. ‘No offence dude, but you’re not the Frappuccino type.’

‘Why? Because I can’t handle something tall and fruity?’

Scott laughs, throws the cloth in the sink. ‘Your words not mine.’

 

Derek glances down the list of drinks, frowning at each one before deciding that _fuck it_ , they’re all gross. Might as well get a random one. ‘Can you just make me anything?' he asks, waving a dismissive hand. 'I have no idea what half those things even say.’

Scott raises his eyebrows, the look on his face worrying Derek more than he’d like to admit. ‘You’re letting me have creative freedom over your drink?’ he clarifies, practically throwing the cookies he’s holding into the display.

‘That a problem?’

Scott grins at him. ‘Problem?’ he says, grabbing two cups from the side. ‘You’ve _never_ let me try anything new on you before. It’s like a freaking _Christmas present_.’

‘Yeah, well, I know how to treat my favourite Barista,’ Derek teases, pushing his change across the counter.

‘Just for that, you can have one for free,’ Scott says, making himself busy with the syrups. ‘It’ll be over in a minute. Can’t rush perfection.’

Derek laughs, shakes his head. Turns out, Scott's just too loveable to be annoying. He’s got this goofy grin that makes everything he does seem adorable, even by Derek’s standards. It’s no wonder he gets away with everything.

 

He’s just about to go back to his seat, when the door crashes open, causing at least three people to jump out of their skins. Derek turns around just in time to see a girl steam-roll past him, followed by what Derek can only assume is her boyfriend. He walks with his head down, hands crammed into the pockets of his slightly-too-tight-but-still-flattering jeans. Derek's pulse absolutely doesn't jump as he walks past.

‘Hey, Stiles, think you can stop being a little bitch long enough to get my coffee?’ the girl says, rummaging in her handbag.

‘Yeah, sure. You wanna grab us a table?’ he replies quietly, walking over to the counter.

‘Excuse me?’

Derek watches as the colour literally drains from his face, his already large eyes doubling in size as he flinches away from her, shrinking back into the wall like he wishes he could melt into it. ‘No-nothing. I was just-‘

‘You know I hate it when you tell me what to do, Stiles.’ She grabs the sleeve of his hoodie hard, digs her nails into the soft part of his arm.  

Stiles cringes away from her touch, but doesn't do anything to break it. ‘No. I was just suggesting-‘

‘Well _I’m_ suggesting you go and get my coffee before I break your fucking arm, _sweetheart_.’

Stiles nods vigorously, swallows. ’I’ll get it- I’ll- please-‘

 

‘Is there a problem here?’

Derek crosses the space between them in three strides, nodding at Scott, who grabs the phone from the wall, a look of pure excitement etched across his face.

The girl glares at Derek and he has to admit, she’s intimidating. She’s about an inch shorter than Derek, slender, her blonde hair falling to just above her waist. She has that look in her eyes that makes Derek feel about three feet tall.

‘Why don’t you mind your own business,’ she says through gritted teeth before turning back to Stiles. ‘Come on, lets go.’

She tries to barge past Derek, but he’s too fast. He easily blocks her path, notices the way Scott flinches in the background, already getting way too excited about the whole thing. ‘Why don’t _you_ tell me why you’re threatening to break his arm,’ he asks.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t start that with me,’ Derek says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I heard you.’

He glances sideways at Stiles and _holy hell_ some freaky shit is going down. Because one look at his terrified, agonised expression and Derek wants to rip this girl to shreds. His eyes flicker down to the hand still clamped on his arm, trying to work out how much damage she’s secretly doing under the sleeve of his hoodie. ‘Does that hurt?’ he asks.

‘Well it’s definitely not comfortable,’ Stiles mutters back, his voice surprisingly low and a lot quieter than Derek’s expecting. He probably wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t standing so close.

In fact, he’s so busy concentrating on Stiles that he almost misses the hand as it curls tighter into his arm. It’s only when Stiles actually cries out in pain and starts squirming in her grasp that Derek starts to get _really_ pissed off. She keeps going as Stiles’ knees buckle slightly under the strain, his body twisting away from the pain.

‘Amy, please-‘ he pants, his voice on the verge of breaking. ‘Can you l-let go? Please?'

She growls, points at Derek. ‘Are you just gonna stand here and let him talk to me like that?’ 

Stiles shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, wincing. ‘I was going to say something, but-‘

‘Say what? That you’re a spineless piece of shit who can’t even stand up for his girlfriend?’

Stiles hesitates for a second and Derek _prays_ that he doesn’t say yes. He thinks he might have to shoot himself in the face if he says-

‘Yes.’

 

The words come out automatic, like it’s conditioned, and Derek’s stomach twists uncomfortably as soon as he says it. He has half a mind to give the thumbs up to Scott, who’s literally hopping with anticipation, ignoring the steadily growing line of customers, who’re all watching as well. But as per usual, he’s not about to let a sassy little shit get the better of him.

‘Miss,’ he says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to let go of his arm.’

‘Or what?’ she says, digging her hand in, if possible, a little harder. ‘You gonna make me? Not above hitting a girl?’

‘No,’ he says, pulling the badge out of his back pocket. ‘But I’m not above arresting one.’

 

The moment’s absolutely perfect. As soon as the badge comes out, there’s a collective intake of breath from the now sizeable crowd, and Derek swears he even hears Scott swear under his breath. The whole ground floor of the coffee shop goes completely silent for a split second, before the girl turns a deep shade of red.

‘You know what? Fuck you,’ she says, letting go of Stiles. ‘And fuck you too,’ she says pointing at Derek. ‘I’m done with this. You’re a fucking waste of time.’

She pauses long enough to push Stiles into the nearest table before storming out of the shop, slamming the door behind her.

 

Stiles lands flat on his ass, skidding across the newly polished floor like a hockey puck. ‘Well that was emasculating,’ he says, once he's come to a stop.

‘You alright?’ Derek asks, offering him a hand. Stiles takes it and lets Derek help him, missing the deep red tinge that creeps across his cheeks when their hands meet.

‘Fine,’ Stiles mutters, rubbing his arm. ‘That was pretty badass. You a private detective or something?’

He looks at Derek inquisitively, glancing down at the badge in his hand.

‘No,’ he replies, slipping it back into his pocket. ‘Right now, I’m just Derek.’

‘Well, Just Derek, I owe you one.'

‘No you don't,’ Derek says, smiling at him. ‘I’ve saved plenty of asses in my time, and yours definitely wasn’t the most pathetic.’

Stiles laughs, rubs the back of his head and _oh_ what the hell is this feeling in Derek’s chest. It’s like a warmth spreading into his stomach and for a moment it feels like he’s going to fucking _purr_ or something.

‘Thanks, but you don’t have to lie to me,’ Stiles says, sliding onto a chair. ‘It was pretty bad.’

Derek tries to laugh, but the sadness in Stiles’ eyes chokes it before he can even try. Clearing his throat, he says ‘Did you leave anything at her place?’

‘Nothing but my dignity,’ Stiles says, smiling. ‘We never moved in together. We were about to, but I guess that’s probably off the table.’

‘You’re better off without her,’ Derek says, putting his hand on Stiles’ thigh. It feels so right there Derek almost forgets that this is a _random stranger_ and _Jesus Christ_ what the hell is he doing?

‘Do you want a coffee or anything?’ he asks, pulling his hand away, missing the sad little pout Sties does when it happens.

He smiles at Derek and runs his hands through his hair. ‘No, it’s ok. You don’t have to-‘

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Derek replies, standing up. ‘I’ll be right back.’

 

Derek strolls over to Scott, who’s got an expression on that Derek definitely doesn’t like. ‘What?’ he asks as he reaches the counter.

Scott just raises his eyebrows. ‘Nothing dude. Just admiring your tactics.’

‘What tactics?’ Derek asks, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m getting him coffee.’

Scott shrugs, starting up the machine. ‘Say what you want Derek, but in my experience it never is ‘ _just coffee_.’’

‘Shut up, Scott,’ Derek replies, shoving money into the till. ‘And stop staring at us. It’s creepy.’

‘It’s not my fault you’re cute together.’

Derek flips him off and sits down with Stiles again, hands him the coffee.

‘Thanks,’ Stiles mutters, sipping it slowly.

‘No problem,’ Derek says. ‘Look, if she gives you any trouble, you give me a call Ok?’

He hands Stiles a slip of paper with his number on it, tries to ignore Scott fucking _dancing_ in the background.

‘Yeah, I will. Thanks a lot, Derek,’ he smiles, putting the paper in his pocket. ‘And for the record, you’d make a pretty good batman.’

With that, he gives Derek a quick, tentative hug before leaving the shop, waving at him as he disappears round the corner.

 

For a second, Derek stands frozen to the spot, his heart beating a hell of a lot faster than it should be from just a hug. Then he turns to Scott, who gives him the double thumbs up, grinning like the fucking dumbass kid he is.

‘Don’t say a word,’ Derek snarls, picking up his drinks from the side.

Scott just laughs. ‘Dude, you’re the one making moves right in front of me. Are you taking him to dinner?’

‘Scott, I have a girlfriend.’

‘So did he,’ Scott says, winking at Derek. ‘And look how well that turned out.’


	2. Thanks Batman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half asleep, Stiles breaths in the scent of his jacket deeply, his lips curling into a smile as he whispers, ‘Thanks, Batman.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone :) So after so much positive feedback on the fist part of this, I've decided to make it into full fic. As you can probably see from the length of this chapter, I've got big plans for this story, so I hope you'll stay along for the journey! 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! Enjoy :)

**Stiles**

_Good job, Stilinski_ , Stiles thinks to himself as he leaves the coffee shop, cheeks still burning bright red. _Way to play it cool_.

He sips his coffee, and it's so good he secretly wishes he'd asked what it was. There’s some kind of syrup in it that makes it hard for Stiles not to groan in pleasure every time he sips the damn thing, and he finishes it embarrassingly fast, half tempted to go back and get another one. 

 _No, Stiles, behave yourself_ , he thinks, throwing his cup into the nearest trash can. _You're not that desperate._

And the thing is, he's really _not_ that desperate. He's still cringing over how pathetic he’d looked, the way he’d let Amy tear into him like that. It was embarrassing. But he’d deserved it. He should have just dropped it. So she slept with someone else. It wasn’t like she eloped and married the guy. Stiles shudders at the memory. He can still replay the conversation they’d had after it had happened. The way she’d been so… _relaxed_ about it. Like it wasn’t even a big deal. And he’d got so _angry_ with her; for betraying him, for lying, for making him feel special when he clearly wasn’t. He’d shouted, left the house, run away. He remembers the fight, how the neighbours came round to see if everything was alright. He remembers wanting them to know the truth. But he’d shut the door on them. He’d shut the door on everyone.

 _Get a grip, Stiles,_ he thinks, wiping away the wetness in his eyes. _You’re not a little kid any more._

 

Hitching his backpack a little higher on his shoulders, he starts the walk back to his house. It’s late afternoon, and the sun’s setting just behind the row of houses up ahead. A soft breeze plays at Stiles’ face, finally cooling his cheeks down to a normal temperature. He still can’t believe how _flustered_ Derek had made him. Even holding his hand had set something alive inside him that he couldn’t even begin to explain. He’s never felt anything like that before. 

He rubs his arm absent-mindedly as he walks, still too scared to look at it. He knows it’s bad. He can still feel the dull twinge of pain every time he flexes his muscle. It's a bruise at best, something else he'll have to try and explain away. Another secret. Another wall he'll have to put up. 

 

Stiles shivers despite the heat and tries to think of something, _anything_ else. He pulls out his phone and the slip of paper with Derek’s number scrawled across it. He adds the number to his contacts, exhales through his mouth. At least he’s got something out of his shitty day. 

Smiling softly to himself, he turns down a side road, taking the short cut back to his house, and hopefully, back to normality.

*

He’s still smiling when he gets home almost forty minutes later. He rummages in his backpack for a moment, searching for his keys. Eventually his hands brush something metal and he wraps his fingers around it, dragging the keys out and slinging the bag back over his shoulder.

It’s just as the key slides into the lock that he hears it. The sound of crunching gravel that alerts him too late of the danger behind him.

‘Open the door and I might think about putting this down.’

Stiles freezes, his whole body tensing against something sharp pressing into his back. He shuts his eyes, tries to focus on breathing. ‘Amy please-‘

‘Do what I say,’ she whispers, pressing her mouth into his ear, ‘or I’ll leave you to bleed out on the doorstep.’

Trying hard to swallow against the lump in his throat, Stiles fumbles with the key, finally gets it to click into the lock. The door swings open.

 

It’s only when he's been dragged inside and the curtains are drawn that she speaks again. 

‘What the _hell_ were you thinking?’ she asks, backing Stiles into the corner. ‘Were you trying to embarrass me? Get rid of me? _Replace_ me?’

‘No- no, I-‘ His reply’s cut short before he can even begin. She back-hands him across the face, sending him flying into the coffee table.

‘You think you’d get away with this?’ she says. ‘You think I’d _let you_ get away with this?’

Stiles doesn’t respond. He clutches his stomach where it made contact with the table, blinks the stars out of his eyes. ‘Amy- stop- I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry!?’ she shouts, kicking him hard in the back. ‘You didn’t look sorry when that cop was fucking me over. You didn’t look sorry when he tried to _arrest_ me.’

‘I’m- I’m sorry.’ Even though he knows it makes her angry, it’s all he can think to say. Just apologise and keep his head down. Because fighting back would mean certain death, and he’s not ready to die just yet.

 ‘Stop- saying- sorry!’ she screams, almost tearing her hair out in anger. Stiles scrambles to the wall, curls into the foetal position in an attempt to delay the inevitable. She grabs the lamp from the side, rips out the socket before throwing it so close to Stiles’ head that he can feel the wall vibrate around him. Shattered china rains down on him, and he closes his eyes to avoid it, but in the second he lets his guard down, she’s on him again, punching any part of him she can find. ‘You always fuck things up for me, Stiles,’ she wails, tears pouring down her face. ‘You don’t care about me. All you care about if your stupid, fucking self!’ She punches the wall behind him, her fist breaking straight through the drywall above Stiles’ head. Screaming in pain, she tries to pull it back, but it's trapped, momentarily stuck in the plaster.

Taking the opportunity, Stiles rolls out from under her, lurches towards the door. His hands fumble around the handle as he pulls the door shut behind him, locking Amy inside. He knows it won’t hold her for long, but he only needs a few minutes. He only needs to call Derek. 

Spitting blood from his mouth, he staggers towards the stairs and crawls up them, his head spinning as blood drips from his nose. He wipes it on his shirt, knowing that a nose bleed is probably the least of his worries right now, what with his homicidal girlfriend trying to rip his head off. He bolts into the upstairs bathroom, locks the door behind him, and crumbles into the shower, dropping his throbbing head back against the tiles.  Trying to control the panic tearing through his body, he digs his phone out of his pocket, his fingers fumbling as he searches for Derek’s name. Hands shaking, he pushes the call button, hoping to God that Derek was serious about ringing for help.

 

**Derek**

‘Hello stranger.’ Rachel smiles as Derek finally makes it back with their drinks. He sighs and flops onto the couch next to her, the cushions rocking wildly beneath them.

‘Oh, I know that look,’ she says, tucking herself under his arm. She’s warm and Derek moves into her touch, letting it fill the emptiness that’s latched itself to his chest. ‘Who’d you have to arrest this time?’

Derek laughs, pulls her in closer, rests his hand on her shoulder, rubs his thumb gently across it. ‘Nobody, but I was pretty damn close.’

‘What was it? A fight in the street? Is that why you took so long with my drink?’ She winks at him, nudges her elbow into his ribs.

‘No,’ Derek replies, nudging her back. ‘It was just downstairs actually.’

‘What downstairs as in, under our feet downstairs?’

‘That’s almost definitely what downstairs means,’ Derek says, rolling his eyes.

Rachel gasps, turns to face Derek, her eyes wide and alive with the kind of joy that always forces a smile onto Derek’s lips, even if he knows she’s about to be a little shit. ‘You’re telling me,’ she says under her breath, ‘that all the fun was going on _downstairs_? And I missed it!? No fair!' She huffs and flops back onto the couch, arms folded, pouting.

Derek laughs, pulls her back into his side. ‘Trust me, you wouldn’t have found it very exciting. It was pretty shit actually.’

‘What happened?’ she asks, picking up her drink and sipping it slowly, chewing her straw into an unusable mess. Derek can’t help but smile at her, because she’s just so adorable, sometimes he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to even know her.

‘Who taught you how to use straws?’ he asks, sipping his own drink, which isn’t as awful as he expected, considering Scott made it with half his usual attention.

‘The same person who taught you to deflect questions,’ she says, straw still in mouth. ‘Now talk before I ask Scott for the details.’

‘I was just about to-‘

‘Derek.’

‘Fine,’ he huffs, one hundred per cent certain that he doesn’t want to tell her the whole story. He doesn't like to get her involved in the really nasty stuff. And anyway, he really doesn’t want to talk about Stiles in front of her. But having Scott tell the story is completely out of the question. That boy has a habit of exaggerating the fuck out of everything. ‘It wasn’t even that interesting,' he says, attempting disinterest. 'This crazy bitch walked in with her boyfriend and started getting lary, so I told her to clear off.’

‘That’s it?’ Rachel asks, squeezing his bicep. ‘Come on, Derek, we both know you never get this flustered over ‘just some crazy bitch.’’

Derek sighs, runs his hand through his hair. She’s right. He _never_ gets flustered over work. Normally he’s the one giving gory details, more often than not with a live action role play. This is different though, and they both know it. ‘She nearly broke the guy’s arm, Rachel,’ he sighs, feeling the flush creep up his neck. ‘And he just stood there and took it. He _let_ her do it.’

‘Didn’t he even try to get away?’

‘He didn’t even lift a finger,’ Derek says, resting his head against Rachel’s, letting his shoulder take both their weight. ‘And I get the feeling it’s not a one time occurrence either.’

‘What’d you mean?’

Derek looks out of the window to where the sun is setting, the horizon still distorted and bright with heat. ‘He was wearing a hoodie.’

‘A hoodie?’ she says, looking down at her bare arms and legs. ‘But it’s the middle of summer.’

‘Exactly,’ he says, lapsing into silence. There’s no point denying that he’s worried; it’s too obvious. But it’s impossible not to be worried. He looked so broken, so defeated, it’s like he doesn’t care what happens to him. Derek wouldn’t be surprised if he let her kick the crap out of him without blinking an eyelid. It makes Derek feel physically sick.

 ‘What did you do?’ Rachel asks, obviously just as concerned. ‘I hope you told him to leave her.’

‘Didn’t have to,’ Derek says, scratching his chin. ‘She made it pretty clear that it was over between them.’

‘Bet he was heartbroken.’

‘Devastated,’ Derek teases, kissing her gently on the forehead. ‘I gave him my number, told him to call if she bothered him again.’

‘I should hope so!’ She punches his arm lightly, immediately nuzzles into his chest afterward. Derek squeezes her softly, grateful for the contact. ‘I bet you got him coffee too? Hazelnut Latte?’

‘The very same.’

Rachel hums approvingly before snuggling her face into Derek’s arm. When she speaks, her voice is muffled and drowsy. ‘I’ve trained you well.’

 

They lapse into contented silence, Rachel opening up her laptop, Derek continuing the book he’s reading, ignoring the looks of the ‘respectable adults’ reading ‘proper novels.’ Because he’s man enough to admit that a story about two teens with cancer makes him tear up faster than a kick in the balls. If he’s honest, a kick in the balls would probably be less painful.

 It’s almost an hour later when Derek’s phone rings, an unknown number flashing across the screen. ‘Wonder who that is,’ he says, staring blankly at the number.

‘Answer it, numbnuts,’ Rachel says, impatiently tapping his arm.

Derek slides his thumb across the screen and brings the phone to his ear. ‘Hello.’

‘ _Derek_?’ The voice cracks through the speaker, broken and desperate.

‘Who is this?’

_‘Derek, it’s Stiles. She’s here. She’s back.’_

‘Stiles!’

Derek sits bolt upright, almost knocks the coffee table flying. ‘Stiles, what’s going on?’

 _‘She’s in my house,’_ he whisperers. _‘She’s here and she has a knife Derek please I don’t know what to do-‘_

His words jumble together as he talks, making it almost impossible to understand what he’s saying. But Derek gets enough for him to understand what’s going on. The empty feeling in his chest intensifies as his head spins with worry. He needs to calm down, but all he can think about is Stiles and the growing fear swallowing him whole.

From somewhere far away, he feels a hand grasp his own. He looks down to see Rachel squeezing their palms together, rubbing her thumb against his. She nods at him, calmly, authoritatively, and all at once, Derek’s in control again. He grips her hand tighter and lets his training kick in.

‘Where are you in the house, Stiles?’ he says, his voice in full badass cop mode. He can see Rachel smiling at him proudly out of the corner of his eye.

 _‘I’m in the upstairs bathroom,’_ he whimpers. _‘I managed to lock her in the downstairs-‘_ Stiles’ voice is cut of by a colossal crash at the other end of the line, followed by a whimper of fear and fast, heavy breaths. Derek’s heart literally _jumps_ out of his chest at the sound.

‘Stiles what-‘

_‘She’s coming upstairs, Derek, oh my god, what do I do? She’s got a knife and I can’t… I can’t breathe…’_

‘Stiles, I need you to clam down,’ Derek tries, his voice a lot calmer than he feels. ‘I’m on my way. What’s your address?’

Derek scribbles the information down twice on spare napkins as he talks, already throwing his book into his backpack.

_‘Derek… please… I can’t… she’s trying… break… the door… plea-‘_

The line goes dead and Derek’s heart must skip a beat, because he’s on his feet before he can stop himself, shouting down the phone.

‘Stiles! Stiles, what’s happening? _Goddammit_!’

Derek shoves his phone into his back pocket, follows Rachel, who’s already running towards the stairs.

‘Is it her? Is she there?’ she asks as they practically sprint down the stairs.

‘She’s there,’ he says, swinging round the corner. ‘And she has a knife.’

 

He stops at the bottom of the stairs and throws the keys at Rachel, who catches them with one hand.

‘Go and get the engine started,’ Derek says, nodding at her. ‘I’ll be there in a second.’

She gives Derek a thumbs up before running out of the shop, letting the door slam shut behind her.

Derek watches her go, waits until she’s halfway to the car before running up to Scott, who’s watching him suspiciously over the counter. ‘Scott, there’s an emergency,’ he says, pushing the napkin with Stiles’ address towards him. ‘I need you to call the station and send them to that address.’

‘Crazy bitch back?’ Scott asks, scanning the paper, his worried expression not matching his casual tone.

‘Got it in one,’ Derek says, tapping his fingers impatiently. ‘Promise me you’ll do it.’

‘Of course I will, dumbass- go!’

Without another word, Derek turns on his heels and runs towards the car, praying that he’s not too late.

 

 *

 

They get to Stiles’ house in under ten minutes, narrowly missing the Jeep in the driveway as Derek slams on the brakes. He ducks down to grab his gun, which is hidden under the driver’s seat. He grasps blindly with his hand, fumbling against the cold metal until he has a firm grip on it. He’s just tucking it into his holster when Rachel tugs the sleeve of the jacket he'd thrown on, her hands trembling.

‘Derek,’ she whimpers. ‘The door.’

Derek follows her gaze to the house, his heart pounding in his chest. The door is hanging open, long nails marks etched into the polished wood, like someone tried to claw their way out. The hallway beyond it is dark and empty, the only light in the house coming from somewhere out the back.

‘Stay behind me.’ Derek slides out of the car, leaves the door open as he moves towards the building. The rest of his team haven't arrived, but he's not leaving anything to chance. If Stiles is in there, that's where he needs to be.

Treading slowly, Derek avoids the pieces of discarded rock strewn across the driveway. It’s unnaturally silent and so eerie that the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He expected noise, screaming, talking at least. He hadn’t expected to hear his own breath, fast and laboured as he walks, or Rachel’s heart beat behind him, strong and frantic in his head. He shuts her out, focuses on the noises inside the house.

 

Derek’s almost over the threshold when a sound jolts him to a stop. He holds a hand out to Rachel, who freezes behind him with a small intake of breath. Derek turns and puts a finger to his lips. He has a hard time distinguishing sounds when he’s anxious, and right now, he needs to be certain that what he’s hearing is true. He turns an ear towards the hallway, breathing shallow as he tries to piece the sounds together.

 ‘Amy… plea- please… Amy…’

‘How many times do I have to tell you to shut your goddam mouth before you’ll actually do it?’

After the silence, their voices are loud in Derek’s head. For a second he leans against the door frame, trying to shake the thundering in his ears. He closes his eyes, breathing slowly until it dies down to a steady throb, lingering somewhere at the base of his skull. He recovers just in time to hear a thud and the sound of muffled sobbing coming from the end of the hallway. Instinctively, he pulls his gun from the holster at his hip, points it in front of him before gesturing for Rachel to follow.

They make it two steps down the hall before Derek has to stop, choke back a groan. From inside, the smell of blood isn’t disguised by the flowers or car fumes from the outside world. In here it’s overwhelming, metallic, and Derek has to force himself forward, just to stop himself throwing up.

‘I’m sorry! I didn’t…. I didn’t mean to. I’ll do better, I-‘

‘Better! You’ll do _better_!? Do you honestly think you can _ever_ do better?’

‘No… no, I’m sorry. I’m-‘

The sound of smashing glass hits Derek’s senses so hard, he’s sure it should have knocked him out. His hands fly to his ears, squeezing the reverberating sound from his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Derek knows this isn’t normal. He’s not been this sensitive to noise in a long time.

Something scrabbles over broken glass, echoing whimpers mixed with a strangled cry. Derek tries to focus. His hands tremble as he aims the gun again, searching out a target he still can’t see. The smell of blood becomes almost overwhelming as he pushes further along the hall, the sounds of laboured breathing mixing with the sound of his own steady inhalations.

Derek pauses just before his shadow can spill across the chink of light illuminating the floor in front of the room. He pushes his shoulder blades into the wall, the gun pressed tight into his chest.

He waits three seconds. Then he moves.

 

**Stiles**

Stiles closes his eyes as the knife pushes into his throat, moans softly at the slight increase in pressure. There’s blood, that much he can tell. He can feel it pooling at the base of his neck, running down under his shirt. He squeezes his eyes shut against the nauseating pain tearing through his temple, focuses on staying awake. He tries to swallow against the blade, but it forces it in deeper, only adding to the burning pain spreading up to his jaw.

Amy leans in closer, so close Stiles can smell the musky scent of her perfume against her neck. He remembers buying it for her last Christmas, and how happy she’d been with it. It’s just about the only thing he ever did right in their relationship.

Stiles shivers as she leans into his ear, her breath raising the hairs at the back of his neck.

‘How does it feel, Stiles?’ she says, running a finger over his jaw. ‘To know that you were always completely helpless?’

‘Amy-‘

‘Don’t speak,’ she whispers, putting a finger to his lips. ‘You’ve done enough begging for one day.’

 He pulls in a deep, shuddering breath, unable to meet her eyes. His whole body trembles against the wall, uncontrollably convulsing under the knife. He blinks back tears as she starts to gently kiss the side of his jaw. ‘What’re you-‘ 

He grunts as Amy digs her knee into his stomach, trapping his thigh under her other leg. She moves her lips down his throat, around the blade until she’s kissing his chest through his shirt.

‘I always knew you were scared of me,’ she murmurs, her free hand resting over his heart. ‘I could always tell you hated it when I touched you.’ Her hands slide down to the base of his stomach, and this time he can’t help but flinch away, a moan escaping him as it drives the knife in a little deeper. ‘That’s it,’ she whispers. ‘Cry, Stiles. We both know that’s what you want to do. You want to beg at my feet and cry like the sad little boy you are, don’t you?’

He doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he can. His head is already pushed back as far as it will go, his body sprawled at odd angles against the wall. But the glint in her eyes is enough to know that it’s a bad decision, the hand slowly constricting his arm enough to confirm it. Stiles gasps against the searing pain, her nails digging into the already tender skin like it’s nothing.

‘I asked you a question, Stiles,’ she growls, digging her nails in hard, twisting slowly deeper into the sleeve of his hoodie.

‘Amy, don’t do this… Amy…’ Stiles gasps, blinking away the blackness slipping into the edge of his vision. ‘Stop! Amy, please!’

 

‘Put your hands where I can see them!’

For a moment, Stiles is convinced he’s dead. He never thought Derek would actually come. He met the guy not two hours ago, for god's sake. He just hoped he’d have the decency to find his body before his dad had to. But the way Amy tenses against him, the way her chest starts heaving with rage is enough to tell Stiles that this is real; that Derek actually came after him. It’s incredible enough that he can’t help the smile tugging at his lips.

Amy turns, eyeing the gun pointed at the hand on Stiles’ arm, before glaring back at Stiles, who physically flinches away from her, the smile fading before it’s fully formed. ‘There you go again,’ she says, pulling Stiles towards her. ‘Begging for help. _Always_  begging for help. It’s pathetic, Stiles.’

Stiles says nothing. He just stares at the spot under the sink where he used to hide when he was a kid. He wishes that he could go back to when the scariest thing in his life was a thunderstorm. To when he didn’t have to stare at the pillow crammed into the network of drains and wish he could _still_ hide there. Amy’s right. He _is_ always begging for help. He is pathetic. And he’s going to die, without a chance to prove her or anyone else wrong. He’s going to die broken and lonely on his kitchen floor, surrounded by the broken remains of the vase she’d thrown at him.

 

 

**Derek**

Stiles has given up. That’s the only way Derek can describe the look in his eyes as they stare, fixated on something under the sink; hopeless, tired, defeated. But the funny thing is, Derek swears he saw Stiles smile when he came in. He saw the side of his mouth curl upwards, as though everything was going to be ok. No less than a minute ago, Stiles had seemed hopeful. But that was before Amy opened her fucking mouth.

Derek waits a minute before he speaks again, gives her time to make a decision. It took him less than twenty seconds to change his target from her hand to her forehead, so he’s not entirely sure what’s taking her so long. ‘I said, out your hands where I can see them,’ he growls, stepping towards them.

Amy doesn’t respond. She’s too busy glaring at Stiles’ throat, like she’s offended by it.

‘I won’t ask you again.’

‘You see what you do, Stiles?’ she says. ‘You see what you make me do? It’s _your_ fault I’m like this. It’s all your fault!’ Her voice rises to a shout by the end of the sentence, wild and manic, spit flying out of her mouth. She drags Stiles to his feet and stands behind him, one hand pulling his head back as far as it will go. Stiles makes a strangled noise as the knife starts to choke him, biting his lip to stop the sob Derek knows he’s holding back.  

Amy laughs and it’s like Derek’s been punched in the gut. He hadn’t fully appreciated what he was dealing with until now. The girl isn’t just evil, she’s dangerous, and it’s his job to stop her. ‘I’m giving you one last chance,’ he says, subconsciously moving to stand in front of Rachel, who’s still in the doorway. ‘Let him go.’

‘Funny,’ she says, manoeuvring Stiles so she can see him. ‘I was going to say the same to you.’

Derek glares at her, unable to speak. His brain is completely blank.

In his moment of hesitation, she faces him directly, smirks viscously behind Stiles’ shoulder. ‘Drop the gun and I’ll let him go.’

‘I don’t think-‘

‘Do it,’ she says, raising her eyebrow. ‘Or I swear to God, I’ll run him through right here.’

There's a pause where they both stare at each other, defiant in their actions. But in the end, Derek knows when he’s beaten. Slowly, he raises his hands by his side, crouches slowly with the gun pointed at the ceiling. ‘Amy,’ he says, lowering the gun to the floor. ‘It is Amy, isn’t it? Think about what you’re doing for a minute. Killing him will only ruin your life.’

‘Like he hasn’t done that already,’ she mutters, eyeing the gun. ‘Kick it over there.’

With a twinge of annoyance, Derek kicks the gun to the opposite wall, watches it clatter against the kitchen cabinet. ‘Ok,’ Derek says, holding out his hands. ‘I did what you wanted. Now let him go.’

‘Have it your way.’

 

Without warning, she lets go of Stiles, pushing him to the floor. He falls, whether from lack of oxygen or loss of blood Derek can’t tell, his hands lying uselessly at his side as his head hits the floor, cracking against it with a sickening thud.

‘Stiles!’

Nothing else matters; not the gun, not the knife, not the shards of broken glass at his feet. The only thing that matters is Stiles and the blood pooling around his head. 

Derek dives towards him, feet sliding on the blood-slicked linoleum. He’s so focused on Stiles that he barely hears Rachel scream behind him. He turns just in time to see a blade fly past his nose, millimetres away, and slam into the wall behind him.

Stunned, he searches for the thrower, but all he sees is a tangle of limbs on the floor, glass flying in all directions as the two girls struggle amongst the wreckage.

Between heavy breaths, he hears the click of handcuffs as Rachel sits up, wiping blood from her forehead. ‘Didn’t anyone teach you it’s not nice to throw things?’

 

Derek wants to laugh. He wants to walk over and kiss the living daylights out of Rachel and her stupid spare handcuffs that he calls ridiculous on a daily basis. He wants to kick the shit out of the girl struggling beneath her. But before he can do any of those things, a groan steals all of his attention. ‘Stiles,’ he breaths as he turns him onto his back, resting his bleeding head on his knee. ‘Stiles, can you hear me?’

‘You came.’ Stiles’ voice is soft, breathy, like he’s telling Derek a secret he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Derek shrugs. ‘You called.’

He gets a small smile in return, a noise that probably should have been a laugh, before his eyes shut, his eyebrows knotting together as he brings a hand to his head.

‘Stiles,’ Derek says, slapping his cheek gently. ‘You’ve gotta say awake. Rachel’s calling an ambulance, but you have to stay with me until then, ok?’

Stiles opens his eyes blearily, blinking into the light. ‘Who- who’s Rachel?’

‘A friend,’ Derek explains. ‘She’s getting help, don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up. I promise, you’ll be fine.’

At this point, Derek not sure who he’s trying to convince more, himself or Stiles, but it seems to be working for both of them, because he gets another strangled laugh in response. Stiles breathing starts to slow as his eyes close again, and Derek knows there’s no way he’ll keep him awake, not now the adrenaline’s worn off. Instead, he pulls his jacket off and tucks it under Stiles’ head, cushioning him as he drifts off.

He’s just getting up to check on Rachel when he hears it. Half asleep, Stiles breaths in the scent of his jacket deeply, his lips curling into a smile as he whispers, ‘Thanks, Batman.’


	3. Night, Asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Shut up, Derek,’ Stiles says, rolling his eyes. ‘Dad, if he doesn’t get a promotion, or a gold star, or whatever you guys get when you do well, I swear I’m going to make you eat salad everyday for the rest of your life.’
> 
> ‘He’s already deputy, Stiles. If I promoted him, I’d be giving him my job.’
> 
> ‘Well then give him a special name badge or something and move on. He deserves it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the new chapter :) For those of you asking where Sheriff Stilinski was, I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. 
> 
> Writers block has hit me hard this week, so sorry if it's not my usual standard. My wonderful friend read it for me and made suggestions, so hopefully it's all good :D
> 
> As always, let me know what you think in the comments! Enjoy :)

**Derek**

‘I want to go with him.’ Derek pushes past the medics, hands fumbling over his bloodied shirt as he tries to pull it over his head, exchanging it for the spare one he keeps in the back of the car.

‘Derek, wait,’ Rachel says, catching his wrist as he thunders past, pulling him to a stop in front of her. He tries to brush her off, but she blocks him again, presses her palm into his chest, stifling the growl building at the back of his throat.

‘Rachel, please. I need to know he’s ok.’

‘He’s fine,’ she soothes, rubbing her thumb against the inside of his wrist. Her hands are cool and smooth in contrast to Derek’s, which are unbearably hot. He clenches them into fists, trying to curb the frustration building in his chest. It doesn’t work.

‘Look,’ she continues, taking his fists into her hand. ‘The doctor said he’s stable. Probably just passed out from the stress.’

‘But-‘

‘Derek, it’s ok. I’ll be with him the whole time. Nothing will go wrong, I promise.’ She smiles softly, leans in to kiss his cheek before whispering into his ear. ‘And if it does, I’m pretty handy with a pair of handcuffs.’

Trying not to think about just how true that statement is, Derek nods, pulls her into a hug that makes everything seem a little less immediate, less vital, less dramatic. Derek would never admit it, but holding her is sometimes the only thing that keeps him sane. 

‘Call me as soon as you get to there,’ he murmurs into her hair before pulling away, rubbing circles into the small of her back.

Rachel smiles at him, gazing into his eyes, and Derek can’t help but smile back. There’s something so sincere about her expression that he knows even if he asked her to call fifty times she’d do it. That’s just how she is.

‘Of course,’ she says, kissing his cheek before stepping up into the ambulance. She picks up Stiles’ limp hand and squeezes it gently, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles. ‘Don’t be long.’

‘Don’t plan to be,’ Derek replies as the doors slam shut and the engine starts. She gives him a small wave as they drive away and Derek raises his hand in farewell, waiting until they’ve disappeared into the distance before turning back to house, kicking away loose gravel as he walks.

 

He’s just about to sit down on the doorstep when another car pulls into the driveway, blue flashing lights casting strange shadows against the dark street.

‘About bloody time,’ Derek says as two figures emerge from the front seats, slamming the doors shut behind them. ‘What, did you have to build the car before you came?’

‘Derek, we’re police officers, not miracle workers,’ Erica says, walking over to sling an arm around his shoulder. ‘And besides, we had to wait for someone to look after the station. It’s crazy tonight.’

‘Anything unusual?’

‘Not unless you count a drunk guy getting stuck in a bin as unusual.’

Derek laughs. ‘Erica, I hang out with you. That’s nothing.’

‘I resent that,’ she grins, wrapping an arm around Boyd’s waist as he joins them from the car. ‘I’m an _extremely_ careful drunk.’

Boyd laughs, threads his hand into Erica’s. ‘Tell that to my kitchen table.’

‘Oh my God, that was _one time_!’ she moans, scowling at him. ‘And you promised you’d never say anything.’

‘Guys, as much as I love to hear about Erica’s inability to hold her liquor,' Derek interrupts before Boyd can reply, 'I have a psychotic women handcuffed to a radiator in there, so if we could kindly get on with things, I’d be eternally grateful.’

Erica smirks, raising her eyebrow in a way that makes Derek nervous. Nothing good ever comes from a look like that. ‘Handcuffed to a radiator?’ she asks, tilting her head to the side. ‘You surprise me, Derek. I pinned you as a ‘bed-only’ kind of guy.’

Derek groans and rolls his eyes, trying to hide the heat creeping onto his cheeks. It’s just so typical of Erica to bring up his _sex life_ , of all things. ‘Remind me why I hired you again?’ he asks.

Erica hums for a moment, brings a finger to her lips in mock contemplation. ‘My winning personality?’

‘Yeah,' Derek says, jostling her towards the house. 'You wish.’

‘What was it then?’ she asks as the three of them walk, Derek walking slightly in front of the other two as follow. ‘Was it those peanut butter cookies I brought to the interview. Because I _know_ how much you love them.’

Derek laughs, remembering the tin of cookies she’d brought into her _job interview_ , the ones Derek had adamantly refused to eat. Because they were a _bribe_ , and Derek would be sacked on the spot for hiring someone based on their ability to bake. ‘Erica, I didn’t hire you because of the cookies.’

‘Why did you then?’

‘I have my reasons.’

‘Oh Derek,’ she sighs. ‘Ever the conversationalist.’ She ruffles his hair affectionately, winks at him as she walks past. Derek doesn’t have the energy to call it endearing.

 

Erica reaches the hallway first. She freezes as the smell hits her; her eyes adjusting to the light, flickering from one bloodstain to the next. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she breaths when they eventually cross the threshold. ‘When you said it was bad…’

‘You sure the kid isn’t dead?’ Boyd says, eyeing the bloody handprints leading from the living room to the stairs. Derek has to admit, it doesn’t look good.

‘No, he’s fine,’ he says half-heartedly. ‘I think most of the blood’s from his nose. She punched him pretty hard.’

Boyd snorts, pushing past Derek to inspect further, running a hand over the claw marks etched into the door. ‘No kidding.’

‘What happened to the door?’ Erica asks, staring blankly at the unhinged and splintered piece of wood littering the floor.

Derek shrugs. ‘She broke it down.’

 

Ignoring Erica’s eye roll, he passes her and walks into the living room, where Amy is still cuffed to the radiator. Her hair’s dishevelled and there’s a cut on her lip, but other than that, she looks perfectly fine. It makes Derek angrier than he expected.

Erica follows close behind, examining the splintered wood at her feet. ‘Usually I’d congratulate you,’ she says, kicking some of the debris aside as she enters the room. ‘But considering it looks like a massacre in here, I’m not going to be to charitable with the compliments.’

‘Save your breath,’ Amy says, glaring at her. ‘He deserved it.’

Erica growls, low and threatening and Derek has to reach out and hold her, anchor her, before she loses it.

‘Derek,’ she snarls. ‘Permission to put my foot up her ass.’

‘Trust me,’ Derek replies, drumming his fingers against her wrist in a vague attempt at comfort. ‘You don’t want your foot anywhere near her.’

Amy rolls her eyes, and Derek has to admire Erica’s nerve. The girl just looks… _horrible_. Like the type of person that kicks puppies for fun, or trips little kids as they run past. Lord knows Derek doesn’t want to be within three feet of her.

‘Look, I’m very flattered,’ she says, tugging the hand attached to the radiator. ‘But are you clowns going to do something? Not that I don’t enjoy listening to you, but I’d really rather leave here by the time I’m forty.’

‘That’s funny, I thought you were at least forty five,' Erica says. 

Derek nods at Boyd, who sighs and moves to stand in front of her. ‘I’m going to get the paperwork ready. Are you coming?’

It looks like she’d rather stay and rip Amy to shreds, her eyes set in a scowl so sincere, Derek makes a mental note to never leave them alone together. Eventually though, she nods and lets Boyd take her hand, lead her into the hallway and into the kitchen.

Derek can still hear Erica complaining two minutes later.

 

He clicks his tongue, taking in the destruction around him; the broken lamp, the overturned coffee table, the hole in the wall. Derek can feel the anger bubbling in his stomach, temporarily drowning out the guilt. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d just arrested her at the coffee shop. He’d had enough reason to, but he hadn’t wanted to embarrass Stiles any more than necessary. And then she’d tried to kill him. Another impeccable decision by Derek Hale.

‘Any chance you can open the window?’ Amy says from the floor, craning her head backwards towards them. ‘I’m pretty sure I have the right to breathe.’

‘You also have the right to remain silent,’ Derek growls. ‘And yet you still won’t shut up.’

Amy tuts and glares viscously at the floor as if she’s trying to burn a hole in it. ‘Funny,’ she mutters. ‘No wonder Stiles likes you.’

Derek _really_ wishes he’d let Erica kick her ass.

He doesn’t reply, just stares at the hole in the wall, trying not to look at the blood splatters below it, knowing that Stiles is fine. Well, not fine, but not dead. That’s just about the only comfort Derek gets these days.

‘I never wanted to kill him, you know,’ Amy continues, tugging gently on the handcuffs. ‘I was just doing what I had to do.’

‘Shut up,’ Derek says, pronouncing each word clearly enough that she might finally get the message.

She sighs and shuffles into Derek’s peripheral vision. ‘It’s not _my_ fault he hasn’t learnt to protect himself. I was trying to _help_ him.’ She pauses, tilts her head. ‘Isn’t that what you want, Derek? To help him?’

Derek’s heart pounds in his chest as he growls, low and virtually non existent, but enough to release some of the anger coursing through his veins. He’s disappointed to see she doesn’t even flinch. Instead, she stays still, pouting at him like she’s a child Derek has to tell off. He doesn’t fall for it. He’s been in his position long enough to know when he’s getting guilt tripped.

‘Stop. Talking,’ he says through gritted teeth, refusing to look at her. He’s curious; curious about Stiles, where he came from, what he’s like, how he ended up with a psychopath like her. He wants to ask a million questions at once, to understand him, but he knows it’s not going to be possible. If he starts listening, he’ll never stop.

‘You can ignore me all night, Derek, but we both know he won’t survive on his own. He needs me. _You_ need me.’ She lets her words linger in the air, lets Derek listen to the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

He closes his eyes, swallows, bites down the growing need to rip her fucking throat out. He turns his hands into fists, imagine them hitting a wall, letting the imagined release wash over him. ‘What I need,’ he says, his eyes still closed. ‘Is for you to _stop talking_.’

‘Fine,’ she drawls, rolling her neck against the wall. ‘Good luck to you. He’s a fucking nightmare if ever I met one. I hope you two will be very happy together.’

Betraying his own instincts, Derek’s eyes flit sideways, darkening at the smug look on her face. ‘What do you mean nightmare? He looked pretty innocent to me.’

She shrugs, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Looks can be deceiving.’

 

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but he's cut off by Erica, who pokes her head around the doorway. ‘We’re ready, Derek.’

‘Brilliant, I’ll meet you at the car.’

Erica sighs, rolling her eyes for what must be the thousandth time. ‘Don’t you have a hospital to get to?’

‘Yeah but-‘

‘Derek, we can take it from here. If I were you, I wouldn’t want my girlfriend getting cozy with another dude either.’

‘It’s not like that-‘

‘I know dumbass,’ she laughs. ‘Now are you going to leave, or do you want me to drag you?’

Derek shakes his head, heading towards the door. He takes one last look back at Amy before murmuring, ‘Tell the Sheriff that I’ll be in early to file the report.’

Erica cocks her head to the side, giving Derek a look he’s only seen a couple of times before. It’s deep, searching. It makes him extremely uncomfortable. ‘You really care about this kid don’t you?’

Derek’s silence is enough to confirm it. She pats his arm as he walks away, back to the car, trying not to notice that he’d already memorised Stiles’ scent, trying to ignore the nagging pull in the pit of his stomach telling Derek that Stiles is in trouble.

 

*

Derek arrives at the hospital fifteen minutes later, leaving his car parked haphazardly at the far end of the parking lot. It’s late, he’s pretty sure it won’t cause too many problems.

Checking the doors are locked, he turns and practically sprints towards the hospital, needing to get rid of some excess energy. When he reaches the doors, he charges through them, narrowly avoiding a group of interns, before skidding to a stop in front of the reception desk.

Scott’s mum, Melissa is working, tapping her pen against the desk. ‘He hasn’t woken up yet,’ she says, without looking up. ‘He’s in room two twelve, but Isaac wants to talk to you before he wakes up. He’s in his office.’

‘Right,’ Derek says, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Right. Thanks, Melissa.’

He turns away, walking down the corridor that he knows leads to Isaac’s office. His hands are shaking a little, probably more to do with the amount of caffeine he had earlier, and he clenches them tightly, taking the time just to breathe. Stiles is fine. He’s sleeping. He’s not in danger. Amy’s at the station with Boyd and Erica. There’s nothing to worry about. Not yet, anyway.

 

He’s three feet from the door when it opens, revealing a tired looking but still smiling Isaac.

‘Derek!’ he says, pulling him into a quick, one-armed hug. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Isaac, I saw you last week.’

‘Yeah, and that’s a record, all right?’ Isaac laughs, flopping down in his chair. ‘I missed you.’

Derek snorts and sits down in the chair opposite, eyeing the folder lying open on the desk. He frowns at it inquisitively, trying to read Isaac’s quite frankly ridiculous handwriting.

‘It’s Stiles’ file,’ Isaac offers, flipping back to a page about halfway through.

‘The whole thing?’ Derek asks, taking in the piles of notes crammed into it.

Isaac nods. ‘Yeah. Clumsiest kid I’ve ever met.’

Derek whistles under his breath as Isaac flips through the pages, occasionally highlighting things as he goes. ‘Is it normal to have a file that big?’

‘It’s not uncommon,’ Isaac mutters, concentrating on the pages. ‘But it’s one of the more extensive files, yeah.’

‘Is any of it serious, or…’

Isaac looks up, and Derek’s stomach immediately drops fifty feet. He looks worried, _upset_ about something. It makes Derek nervous.

‘Well, that’s the reason I called you in,’ he says. ’I mean, I was told he was here constantly as a kid. You know, the usual, bumped heads, minor cuts, sprains. Normal stuff.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

Isaac sighs, rubs his temple. ‘The _problem_ ,’ he says, tapping his pen against the desk, ‘is that eventually, kids grow out of it. They stop hurting themselves as much, get stronger. Stiles was no exception.’

‘So all those notes…,’ Derek mutters, already knowing where the conversation is headed.

‘Are from the last three years, yeah.’

 

There’s a massive part of Derek that wants to leave, walk out before he asks to many questions, before he gets in too deep. But an even bigger part of him wants to know exactly what’s happened to Stiles, so that he can put Amy way for as long as possible.

Isaac stares down at the notes again, shakes his head. ‘I never… I mean it was _Stiles_. I thought it was just… him. It didn’t even occur to me that she was…’ His eyes drop to the floor, glaze over.

Derek reaches over and nudges his hand encouragingly. ‘Isaac, this isn’t your fault.’

‘I just… I should have _done_ something.’

‘Stop it,’ Derek says, snapping his fingers in front of his face. ‘This is nobody’s fault.’ He sighs and closes the file slowly, lowers it to the floor beside him.

‘No,’ Isaac says, trying to pick it up again. ‘If I just-‘

Derek slaps his hand away. ‘Isaac, you need to stop blaming yourself for things you can’t control.’ He looks up, hoping that his face tells Isaac just how serious he is. ‘If we’re going to figure this out, I need people who I can rely on. And I can’t rely on you if you’re not professional about this. I need _you_ , alright. So tell me, how is he?’

‘Right now,’ Isaac sniffs, ‘he’s sedated. It’ll help with the shock. The cut on his head needed stitches and he was a little woozy from blood loss, but he should be absolutely fine. He might have a scar on his neck, but nothing that won’t fade over time.’

More relieved than he’d been since he met Stiles, Derek smiles and stands up, pats Isaac on the back as he joins him, making their way to the door. ‘You’re a good doctor, Isaac. Remember that.’

‘Thanks, Derek.’ Isaac nods as Derek leaves, trailing back through the endless corridors to Stiles’ room.

 

When he finds it, the door's shut, the room silent.

Derek pokes his head round the doorframe just as Rachel looks up, still holding Stiles’ hand. ‘Did you talk to Isaac?’ she asks as Derek takes the empty seat beside her. ‘Because Melissa said he wanted to talk to you.’

‘Yeah, I saw him,’ Derek replies, slipping his hand into her vacant one. ‘He just wanted to clear some things up with me. Work stuff.’

Rachel smiles. ‘You got enough to charge her?’

‘I hope so,’ Derek sighs, looking over at Stiles. The cut on his neck looks so red against his pale skin. Derek’s just pleased it’s shallow. At least it won’t be permanent.

Rachel leans her head on his shoulder, kissing it softly. ‘I know you’ll do everything you can.’

She sighs softly before her heart rate slows and breathing evens out, each breath grazing across Derek’s collar bone.

He leans slowly back into the chair, lets himself start to drift off, before whispering. ‘I hope so.’ 

 

**Stiles**

 

When Stiles wakes up, it’s dark, the only light coming from the hallway beyond the door.

Every inch of his body is stiff, his head and neck stinging painfully. Instinctively, he tries to sit up, immediately regretting the decision. His head swims, his eyes out of focus for a moment before he feels soft hands pushing him back into the pillows.

‘Try not to move, Stiles, ok? The doctor’ll be here in a minute.’

Stiles closes his eyes as the light flickers on, groaning as it sends a stabbing pain shooting through his head. He balls his hands into the sheets, his right hand feeling usually empty, like it’s missing something. Eyes still closed, he makes himself comfortable on the bed, snuggling under the warm sheets a little further. ‘Was someone holding my hand?’ he asks.

‘I was.’

Somewhere in the back of Stiles’ head, he knows the voice is familiar, but in his current state, he can’t place it, can’t connect it to a face.

Tentatively, he opens his eyes, blinking as the room fades into view, the blurred lines sharpening slowly. Eventually Stiles can see again, enough to distinguish the two people standing next to his bed.

‘Derek?’ he croaks, looking the pair of them up and down. The woman reaches out and takes hold of his hand and somehow it takes all the emptiness away.

‘Told you we’d get you fixed up,’ Derek says, putting an arm around Rachel’s waist. For some reason it makes him happy, seeing Derek hold someone like that. It makes him wonder if he has the capacity to do the same.

‘And you’re- you’re Rachel?’ he asks, taking in the blood stain streaked across her cheek. There’s something familiar about her, flashes of memory as he slumped to the floor. It’s enough to remember who she is.

Rachel smiles and squeezes his hand. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘Thank you,’ Stiles says automatically, pausing a little before adding, ‘you know, for everything. You didn’t have to- it was my mess-‘

‘Stiles,’ Derek says, cutting him off. ‘It’s ok. You don’t need to thank us.’

‘No, I do,’ Stiles says, smiling at them. ‘You’re a random guy I met in coffee shop a few hours ago. You could have left me to die back there, but you didn’t. You saved my life and you barely know me. I think that deserves a thank you.’

Derek blushes and Stiles has to look away to stop himself doing the same. Something about that look on his face makes Stiles want to cry and laugh all at the same time. It’s like he cares, _really cares_. And Stiles isn’t used to that.

 

‘I err… We took Amy to the station. I just have to go down tomorrow and-‘

Stiles stops listening, his head going into full meltdown mode, unable to concentrate on anything else except that he took her to the _station_.  _Shit._

‘The station?’ Stiles asks, trying to stay calm despite the fact his voice had just risen three octaves. ‘No, you can’t- she can’t go to the station, Derek.’

Derek looks confused, and rightly so. Stiles hasn’t explained himself very well.

‘Stiles, what’s wrong?’ he asks, glancing at Rachel, who’s eyes never leave Stiles. ‘Why can’t we take her to the station?’

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the door opening, a nurse poking her head into the room.

‘Mr Stilinski, the doctor will be here in just a moment. There’s a disturbance downstairs.’

Stiles nods and smiles until she leaves. When he looks back at Derek, he’s white a sheet.

‘Stilinski?’ he asks, as the door closes. ‘You mean like-?’

‘Yeah,’ Stiles says, biting the inside of his cheek. ‘The sheriff. He’s my dad.'

 

**Derek**

‘Oh crap.'

Derek buries his face in his hand, sighs heavily. Because this is it. This is the end of his damn career. He’d found the fucking _Sheriff’s son_ and not even realised it. How much of a dumbass could one person be?

‘I’m sorry, Derek,’ Stiles rambles from the bed, his heart rate getting quicker by the second. ‘I know I should have told you, but I couldn’t- I couldn’t let dad find out about everything. He’s already swamped at work and with all the stuff he’s gone through I just didn’t have the heart. Please. I’m sorry.’

‘Stiles, stop, it’s ok-‘

 

‘Melissa, I don’t care if he’s sedated, I want to see my son!’

Derek’s mouth falls open as the Sheriff storms through the door, glaring round the room dangerously. Before Derek can say anything, he’s being backed into the wall, the Sheriff’s hand hovered over his gun.

‘Derek what the hell is going on here? My son is nearly murdered and brought to hospital, and you don’t have the common decency to even _call_ -‘

‘Dad, stop!’ Stiles ducks out from under Rachel’s arm and tries to get out of bed, the machines beeping dangerously as he tries to rip the IV line out of his arm. ‘Please, dad, he didn’t know.’

‘What do you mean he didn’t know?’

‘I never told him my last name,’ Stiles says, allowing himself to be pushed back into the bed. ‘I didn’t want you to find out about Amy.’

The Sheriff’s eyes linger on Stiles for a moment, his arm still pressed painfully against Derek’s chest, pinning him there. When he turns back, there’s less heat in his expression. ‘This true, son?’ he asks Derek, lowering his arm so Derek can move again.

Derek nods. ‘Look, Sheriff, if I’d have known, I’d have called you straight away. I made him first priority. I just didn’t know…’ He trails into silence, bringing his hand up to the back of his head. In retrospect, he should have asked his last name straight away, but he was so caught up in helping Stiles, he completely forgot to do his _job_. So much for trying to the right thing.

The sheriff sighs and rubs his temple, eyes flickering between Derek and Stiles, who still looks like he’s contemplating leaving the bed.

‘It’s alright, Derek. I think I can forgive you on account of saving my son’s life.’

‘I didn’t-‘

‘Shut up, Derek,’ Stiles says, rolling his eyes. ‘Dad, if he doesn’t get a promotion, or a gold star, or whatever you guys get when you do well, I swear I’m going to make you eat salad everyday for the rest of your life.’

‘He’s already deputy, Stiles. If I promoted him, I’d be giving him my job.’

‘Well then give him a special name badge or something and move on. He deserves it.’

Derek bites back a laugh at the exasperated look on the Sheriff’s face. He can’t believe he never connected the pieces before. The Sheriff’s always talking about his son; overachieving, sarcastic but somehow still loveable. In Derek’s defence, that description is worlds away from the kid he met a few hours ago.

 

‘Derek, can I talk to you outside for a minute?’

The Sheriff opens the door, holding it for Derek who follows. He doesn’t look happy, and Derek can only assume it’s because he’s talked to Isaac.

‘So, I talked to Isaac-‘

_Bingo_

‘- and he’s telling me things I don’t even want to begin to hear.’

He runs a hand over his face, glancing back into the room where Stiles is talking quietly to Rachel. ‘So, Derek, please tell me my son’s girlfriend hasn’t been kicking the crap out of him for three years. Because I’m not ready to hear that kind of thing.’

Derek looks away, keeping his eyes trained on the floor so he doesn’t have to look at the Sheriff when he answers. ‘I’m sorry, John.’

Derek’s eyes widen at the use of his first name, something he’s never done before. John notices too, but doesn’t seem upset by it. He looks comforted.

‘That’s alright, son. It’s about time you called me that anyway.’ His eyes flicker back to Stiles again. ‘Have you told him?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘No, I haven’t had the chance. He only woke up five minutes before you came in.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘Only if you want me to,’ Derek says, trying to hide how much he doesn’t want to do it. He would rather spend three hours locked in a dark room with Amy than tell Stiles the one thing that might hurt him again.

John nods slowly, patting Derek on the shoulder. ‘I think it’s for the best.’

 

As soon as Derek walks back into the room, Stiles’ head snaps up, leaving Rachel suspended mid-sentence. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Stiles what’re you-?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me,’ Stiles says, staring straight at his father. ‘You only use that look when you’re giving bad news. Like the time you told me they sold out of curly fries at that place we go to down town.’

‘He’s definitely your son,’ Derek murmurs to John. ‘Kid doesn’t miss a trick.’

John only laughs until Stiles’ expression hardens, closes off, like he’s retreating back into his shell at the first sign of danger. ‘Please, Derek,’ he whispers, biting his bottom lip. ‘Just tell me.’

Derek takes a breath. It’s times like this that he hates the detachment that comes with his position. He wishes he didn’t have to do this to him. But’s it’s part of the process, part of his job, and he’s already compromised that enough today. ‘We need you to give a statement.’

 

**Stiles**

 

‘No,’ he says bluntly, folding his arms across his chest. ‘No way. I’m not doing it.’

‘Stiles, if you just listen-‘

‘I am not giving a statement, dad, and that’s final.’

Stiles glares determinedly at the pair of them, refusing to back down first. There is _no way_ he’s going to sit and tell someone about everything; no way in hell.

‘Stiles,’ Derek says, almost pleadingly. ‘If you don’t do this, we can’t convict her of anything.’

‘But you were _there_ ,’ he protests, his resolve slipping. ‘You _saw_ what she did. Isn’t that enough?’

John shakes his head. ‘You know it’s not, Stiles.’

He can’t help it, tears start to burn his eyes before he can stop them, his hands start shaking before he realises what’s happening. He looks to Derek imploringly, trying to plead, to beg, to do _something_ other than agree to this. ‘But…’

‘Stiles, maybe it’s for the best.’ The hand gripped in his own tightens gently. Rachel smiles down at him and somehow, it’s comforting. ‘I know you don’t want to do this,’ she says, glancing over at Derek, ‘but you have to understand this from their perspective. Your father nearly lost you today, and he wants to make sure the person who did it gets put away for as long as possible. He wants to _help you_. All you have to do is help him.’

Stiles bites his bottom lip, dragging his teeth over the recently broken skin. For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut, bites back the tears, because Rachel’s right; they do just want to help. If the tables were turned, he’d be doing the same. But he’s not ready. He’s not ready for his dad to know; not yet.

‘I can’t-,’ he chokes, taking a deep breath. ‘Not- not with Dad.’

He hates the sadness that flashes across his dad’s face, but they both know it’s true.

‘It’s alright, son,’ John says, forcing a pained smile. ‘You can do it with Derek if it’s more comfortable.’

Reluctantly, Stiles nods, sinking back properly into the pillows. ‘Fine, but you owe me a coffee.’

‘Done.’ Derek smiles, wide and toothy and _happy_ , and Stiles’ stomach backflips. That’s a look he hasn’t seen in a while,  _pride_. Nobody’s been proud of him since he scored his first goal in lacrosse back in high school. And that had been an accident.

 

‘This is great guys, really touching, but do you think you could stop harassing my patient and let him sleep? It’s almost two in the morning.’ Isaac leans against the doorframe, smirking at Derek.

‘Shut up Isaac, we were just leaving.’

‘Good,’ Isaac yawns, winking at Stiles. ‘Because I need caffeine, and I can’t do that until I’ve tucked him in.’

Stiles flips him off.

Laughing, Derek turns back to Stiles, rolling his eyes at Isaac. ‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, ok? Call me when he lets you go.’

Stiles smiles at him, nodding despite the stabbing pain in his neck. ‘Will do, Derek. Thanks for, you know, everything.’

‘No problem.’

‘And Dad,’ he adds, just as John turns around. ‘I’m sorry.’

John walks over and gently kisses Stiles’ forehead like he did when he was little, pulling him into a brief hug before pulling away. ‘I know, Stiles. Me too.’

 

Stiles watches them go, squeezing Rachel’s hand softly as she leaves his side, slipping her hand into Derek’s as if she feels the same way as him; emptier without something to hold.

He folds his hands together, glancing up at Isaac, who’s still lingering in the doorway. ‘You wren’t serious about tucking me in, right?’

‘Deadly,’ he says, fiddling with the machines next to the bed.

‘Good,’ Stiles deadpans, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I like to cuddle.’

‘Ok, I'm not awake enough to understand if you’re fucking with me or not, so I’m just going to assume you are and leave you to it.’

Stiles laughs. ‘Don’t worry, doc, totally screwing with you.’

‘Thank god,’ Isaac replies, looking over his notes one last time. ‘Because I think Derek would rip my throat out if I did.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Isaac smiles, patting the top of Stiles’ head. ‘Nothing. Get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

‘Are you always this painfully vague, or is it just for my benefit?’

‘Well you are my favourite.’

Stiles rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, I want a demotion.’

He winks at Isaac as he turns the light out, plunging the room into darkness. ‘Nah,’ he replies from the doorway. ‘You’ll always be my favourite. I did my first stitches on you.’

‘And you did a wonderful job,’ Stiles sighs sleepily, snuggling down under the sheets.

‘Yeah, came in handy today.’

Stiles snorts. ‘I like to keep you on your toes.’

‘Well if I see you back here in the next month, I’ll break yours.’

‘Always a pleasure, Isaac,’ Stiles laughs, rustling the sheets extra loud.

‘Trust me I know,’ Isaac says, opening the door. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll be back int he morning.’

Stiles turns on his side and closes his eyes, letting the darkness wash over him. ‘Night, asshole.'

‘Night, Stiles. 


	4. Let's Do This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘That concludes this interview. The time is twelve thirty-five pm.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. Long time no speak. Sorry for the late upload, but things have been crazy and I haven't had the time to sit and write in aaaagggess. 
> 
> This is my longest chapter yet, and it's full of feels and snuggles. Potential triggers, but nothing worse than I've already written, so hopefully this should be a nice experience for everyone *yay* :)
> 
> If you like it, let me know in the comments, and as always, enjoy!! :)
> 
> (also sorry for any mistakes- I edit as best as I can, but sometimes I miss things)

**Stiles**

‘Dude, you look like shit.’ Isaac runs his eyes up and down Stiles’ body as he pulls his shirt on, scrunching his face up at at the bruises on his ribs.

‘And here’s me thinking doctors were supposed to be reassuring,’ Stiles says, wincing as he tries to move his sore muscles. Turns out getting the crap beaten out of you hurts. A lot.

Isaac rolls his eyes, as Stiles stifles a yawn, groaning in pain. ‘Did you get any sleep last night?’

‘A bit,’ Stiles shrugs. ‘Funnily enough, I had other things on my mind.’

Isaac pauses, gives Stiles a searching look that travels down to the scabbing cut at his throat, before nodding in acceptance. ‘Fair enough.'

Stiles grins up at him, loving that Isaac doesn’t dig for answers. Stiles just isn’t up for that so early in the morning. ‘Would you mind passing me my shoes,’ he says, nodding at the still blood-soaked converse at the foot of the bed.

Isaac pulls a face. ‘Please let me buy you new ones,’ he says, gingerly picking them up. ‘These are gross.’

‘I like them,’ Stiles muses, catching them as Isaac drops them in his lap. ‘They’re comfy.’

Isaac snorts. ‘Yeah, and disgusting. They must be, what? Five years old?’

‘Five and a half,’ Stiles corrects, glaring. ‘And they’re not disgusting. They’re just a little… rough around the edges.’

‘Rough is the right word.’

Stiles smirks at him, flashing a toothy grin. 'One man's trash.'

Isaac laughs, shakes his head. 'Well, when you change your mind, you known where to find me.'

 

Stiles hums contently as he ties his laces, not really bothered by the blood. It is _his_ blood, after all. He's seen it often enough. He thinks about how much has changed in the last few years. How he puked the first time he saw his own blood. How he used to be happy. How his smile had reached his eyes. He thinks about how _different_ things are now, how terrifying, how uncertain. It sounds stupid, but his converse are pretty much the only things that haven't fallen apart over the years. They're still the same comfy sneakers they were when get got them, and for some reason, that reliability makes them important.

'Feeling less nauseous ?' Isaac asks, falling back onto the bed, making the bed literally  _ripple_ beneath him.

Stiles closes his eyes for a second. 'That's debatable.' 

Isaac laughs. 'Are you gonna puke? If you are, please do it in the bin at least. I'm not scrubbing another mattress because of you.'

Stiles grins, remembering the time he'd projectile vomited in bed, leaving Isaac to clean up the mess. 'Aww, come on. You're not _still_ mad about that, are you?'

'Define mad.'

Stiles rolls his eyes. 'Dude, it was _one time_. You're a big boy. You can handle it.'

'I was _nineteen_ ,' Isaac says, his eyebrows so high, they're almost touching his hairline. 'It was my second week on placement and I had to spend three hours scrubbing your puke off the bed. Honestly, that whole experience almost made me reconsider my choice of career.'

Isaac grins at him, winks, but doesn’t move the bed any more.

Stiles nudges him with his elbow. ‘Sorry about that. I promise to puke less in the future.’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ Isaac says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve seen worse.'

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but his words fall short, caught of guard by the connotations behind his reply. He lets his head fall foreword, chin resting on his balled-up fists.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Isaac turn to him, stricken. ‘I didn’t-‘

‘It’s cool,’ Stiles mumbles, biting down on his knuckle. ‘I get it. I just…’

He manages a sigh, but it’s heavy, loaded with empty promises they both know he can’t keep. ‘I’m gonna try this time, ok? I might actually duck when someone…’

He falls silent, bites his bottom lip, teeth dragging over tender skin. Stiles avoids Isaac’s eyes, not wanting to see the pity in them, not wanting his sympathy. Regardless, Isaac pats his back gently, pulling him into a one-armed hug that feels a lot softer than any they’ve shared before.

Tentatively, Isaac smiles at him, running his thumb across Stiles’ shoulder. ‘Ducking usually helps.’

Stiles tries to laugh, but it catches in his throat, turning into more of a sob than anything else. Isaac squeezes his shoulder a little tighter.

‘You know, if you give that statement, you won’t have to duck at all.’

Stiles shakes his head, because sometimes Isaac is just _unbelievable._ ‘Did you plan that segue, or was it just a happy accident?’

Isaac shrugs, winks at him. ‘I take what I can get.’

 

For a moment, they stare at each other, Stiles glaring, but there’s no real heat behind it. Because god nows, he _really_ doesn’t want to give a statement. But this is Isaac, and he can’t bring himself to be angry for _too_ long.

Defeated, Stiles groans, scrunching his nose up. ‘I liked you better when you were threatening to break my toes.’

‘Yeah, well I liked you better when you were doped up on pain meds, and yet, here we are.’

Stiles rolls his eyes as Isaac jumps up throwing him a hoodie, _his_ hoodie, before pointing at the door with a shit-eating grin. 'Now come on, get the hell out of my hospital. You’re wasting valuable bed space.’

 

*

 

For some reason, Isaac follows Stiles down to the reception, even though he can get there with his eyes shut. Stiles assumes he’s just going to his office or something, until he steps in front of him, blocking his access to the door.

‘Can I help you?’ he asks, frowning at Isaac’s folded arms and raised eyebrow.

‘What are you forgetting?’

Stiles glances suspiciously around the waiting room, as if something in the abstract paintings will give him some kind of clue. ‘My… keys?’

Isaac sighs, runs a hand over his face. ‘Stiles, you came here in an ambulance. You left your keys at home.’

‘Oh yeah… errr-'

‘Alright, let’s try this again,’ Isaac says, his eyebrow rising, if possible, a little higher. ‘What are you going to do when you get home?’

Stiles glances at him sheepishly, scrunching his face up. ‘Take a well earned nap?’

Isaac snorts. ‘Nice try. Before that.’

‘Bake a cake for my favourite doctor?’

‘Stiles.’

Isaac fixes him with this _look_ that makes Stiles feel five years old again, and he knows he’s not going to win. Grumbling, he rolls his eyes and sighs. ‘Fine. I’ll phone Derek.’

Isaac quirks an eyebrow at him, leans against the reception desk with what Stiles assumes is an exasperated expression. ‘I literally don’t even have to look at you to know you’re lying to me,’ he says, grabbing Stiles’ upper arm. ‘Come on. We’re taking this to my office.’

‘ _Isaac_ ,’ Stiles whines, trying to shake off the fucking death grip latched on his bicep. ‘I’m twenty-three years old. I can walk on my own.’

‘I know,’ Isaac says, squeezing his arm harder. ‘You also know how to run. Which is exactly why I’m not letting you go.’

 

Stiles growls, defiantly dragging his feet the entire way. When Isaac bustles him inside, he sighs dramatically, throws himself into the chair opposite the desk. 

‘This is a waste of time,’ he huffs, swinging the chair from side to side. ‘I don’t even have his number. My phone’s been taken for evidence, remember?’

Isaac hums, glancing at his phone with a look that makes Stiles’ stomach sink. ‘Good thing I have him on speed dial, then, or we’d be in a right pickle.’

‘I hate you,’ Stiles mutters darkly as Isaac taps the buttons, passing him the receiver.

‘Feeling’s mutual.’ 

Stiles watches as his grin turns into a small smile of encouragement, Isaac giving him a double thumbs up before pulling out his paperwork.

 

The phone rings twice before Derek picks up.

_‘Hi Isaac. Is Stiles-‘_

‘He’s fine,’ Stiles interrupts, trying to ignore the fact that Derek sounds exhausted. ‘In fact, you’re speaking to him right now.’

 _‘Stiles,’_ Derek says, his tone shifting a few octaves higher in surprise. _‘You’re awake.’_

‘And cheerful as ever,’ he quips, shooting a quick glance at Isaac, who just shakes his head knowingly. Stiles clears his throat. ‘Cheerful and, err, ready to talk.’

Isaac snorts from behind his notes, and Stiles flips him off, refusing to look at him again.

_‘That’s brilliant, Stiles! When do you want to do it?’_

Stiles sighs. ‘Truthfully, never. But from the way Isaac’s glaring at me, I think it’s best to get it out the way as soon as possible.’

Derek laughs down the phone, making the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stand on-end.  _‘Sounds like Isaac,’_ he says. _‘Why don’t you come straight over to my place? I’ve got everything we need.’_

Stiles swallows. ‘What’s wrong with my house?’

Even through the phone, Stiles can hear the sympathy in his voice when he replies. _‘They’re still processing the evidence. We can wait if you’re uncomfortable.’_

‘No, it’s fine,’ Stiles says, meekly. ‘Your place sounds great.’

 _'Okay,’_ Derek replies. _‘I’ll see you soon. Ask Isaac to write down the address for you.’_

 

He hangs up, leaving Stiles to splutter into the receiver for a second before putting it back on the hook. Isaac looks up from his paperwork. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘He wants me to go to his place,’ Stiles says, ignoring him completely. ‘He said you know the address?’

‘Already written it down,’ Isaac smiles, pushing a piece of paper across the desk. ‘It’s not far from here. Shouldn’t take you long to walk.’

‘What, no babysitter this time?' he quips. 'Letting me run free and wild?’ Stiles grins as he gets up, picks up the piece of paper with Derek’s address, squints at Isaac’s fucking _awful_ handwriting.

‘Trust me,’ Isaac says, not looking up from his notes. ‘I asked around. Nobody’d have you.’

‘Oh, ha ha.’ Stiles only glances at the address before scrunching it in his pocket, burying his hands in them along with it.

‘Be careful, Stiles,’ Isaac says, fixing him with a stern glare. ‘I was serious about breaking your toes.’

‘Good to know,’ Stiles laughs, pulling the door open. ‘See ya, dumbass.’ He walks out the room, leaves the door to swing shut on it’s own.

Just before it snaps shut, he turns back, sees Isaac look up as he says, ‘See you, Stiles.’

 

**Derek**

Derek runs home in under ten minutes, which is impressive considering he was more than two miles away. Lungs burning, he stumbles into his apartment, head swimming slightly from the exertion, and kicks his trainers onto the shoe rack.

‘You’re home early.’ Rachel’s spread out on the sofa where Derek had sat not half an hour ago, wrapped in a dressing gown, slippers on, lazily sipping her coffee over a magazine.

‘Got a call,’ Derek says, collapsing down next to her. ‘Stiles is coming.’

‘What?’ she says, sitting up, coffee _dangerously_ close to spilling. ‘Now!?’

‘Hey,’ he breaths, covering her hand with his own. ‘Calm down. It’ll take him at least twenty minutes to walk. And I can almost guarantee he won’t care what you look like.’

‘It’s not that, I just…’ She squeezes Derek’s hand softly, uses the other to put her mug down on the table. ‘I wanted everything to be perfect for him.’

Derek glances round the spotless apartment, quirks an eyebrow. ‘Rachel, how is this not perfect?’

She sighs, pats Derek’s knee. ‘Oh, Derek. You have so much to learn.’

‘What else could you _possibly_ -‘

‘First of all,’ she interrupts, gesturing at the table. ‘I wanted to get some flowers, _at least_. And I don’t have _any_ drinks for him, or snacks, or-‘

‘Rachel.’ Derek slips an arm around her waist, pulls her close. ‘None of that matters.’

She huffs indignantly, but melts into his touch anyway, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘It matters to me.’

Derek runs his thumb across her hip, kisses her gently on the forehead. ‘I know. Me too.’

‘I just feel so _guilty_ ,’ she says sitting up and stretching her arms above her head. ‘He had such a rough day yesterday, and I really wanted to make today easier for him.’

‘Trust me,’ Derek smiles, taking a sip of her half finished coffee. ‘Give him some of this and one of those cookies you made yesterday morning, and he’ll be happy.’

‘Derek, that’s what makes _you_ happy.’

‘Eh,’ he shrugs, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Men are all the same.’

Rachel laughs as she stands up, wrapping her dressing gown around her a little tighter. She moves towards Derek, walks her fingers up his chest, tracing the outline of his jaw, before cupping his face in her hands and patting his cheek affectionately. ‘All men? Oh, I don’t know, Derek. I’ve never met another guy who likes his belly rubbed so much.’

Derek laughs, rolls his eyes, kisses her on the forehead. Because Rachel is the only person who can get away with jokes like that. Anyone else would have their ass severely kicked. 

‘I’m gonna go shower now,’ he says, pulling his shirt over his head.

Rachel’s eyes flicker downwards as the corner of her mouth twitches upwards. ‘Yeah. Shower,’ she nods, a little dazed, but still smiling. After a second, she shakes her head, fixes her eyes firmly on Derek’s. ‘Showering is good.’

Derek laughs and takes her hand, pulls him towards the bedroom. ‘Come on. Let’s go get ready. Unless you want him to see you in your pyjamas?’

‘No, you’re right,’ she yawns. ‘Underwear is probably standard etiquette for greeting house guests.’

Derek smirks, cocks his head. ‘Oh, I don't know. I really can’t imagine many people would complain if you opened the door in your bra.’

Rachel snorts, pulls her makeup bag out of the drawer. ‘I get the feeling Stiles would mind.’

‘Better put some clothes on then,’ Derek says from the bathroom. ‘We don’t need him running away. We _really_ need that statement.’

 

Derek can hear her chuckling as he shuts the door, turns on the shower and unbuttons his pants. He’s still hot from his run, but it’s not uncomfortable any more. He’s too distracted to notice anyway. He just wants to see Stiles awake and _smiling_. Well, hopefully smiling. After yesterday, that might not be possible. 

He steps into the shower, lets the hot water pound against him. After the stress of last night, it’s a welcome relief. That’s part of the reason he went for a run. Even though he only got three hours sleep, even though Rachel whined when he pushed the covers back and let the cold air in, even though every fibre of his body screamed in protest when he started sprint intervals in the forest, he still needed that sense of _freedom_ he didn’t have last night. Running’s constant, demanding, but reliable. When he’s running, he doesn’t have to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. When he runs, he’s in control.

Derek pushes his fingers through his soaking hair, lets the water rush over his face, holds his breath until he has no choice but to breathe. Then he runs his hands over his face, washes away the dirt he picked up along his run. He makes a habit of running in the forest. He gets dirtier, it’s harder and there are more things to avoid, but he doesn’t care. He grew up in that forest, and somehow, it still smells like home, even if it isn’t there anymore. For some reason, it’s important to him, that sense of home. He’s never really found it anywhere else. The closest he’s come is here, with Rachel, but it’s still not the same.

That’s why he clings to the little things; the smell of the leaves after rain, the feeling of Rachel asleep beside him, the smell of cinders after a fire. He remembers the little things, because it’s them that he can glue together to make a better individual whole. And even if that whole’s a little broken, it doesn’t make it any less valuable. Not to him, anyway.

 

The doorbell rings, shaking Derek back into reality.

‘Shit.’ He spins, a little wildly, away from the water, slips and nearly falls on his ass. Because Stiles is here, in his house, and Derek’s in the _shower_ , completely _naked_. So much for a grand entrance.

He stops the water and grabs a towel from the rack, drying himself as quickly as possible, scrubbing his hair dry when he’s done. He doesn’t even bother to put his shirt on before he walks into the living room. As soon as his jeans are on, he bolts from the room, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes.

 

**Stiles**

Stiles’ life is _so_ not fair. If it was, it wouldn’t have presented him with an air-flushed, recently showered, _shirtless_ Derek. It just wouldn’t work out that way.

The moment he emerges from what Stiles assumes is the bedroom, both him and Rachel turn, eyes flitting straight down to his chest, then back up to his face as he pulls his shirt on, and _god damn_ , it does nothing to hide how fucking ripped he is. If anything, it only highlights the problem.

Face burning, Stiles accepts the coffee Rachel’s handing him, muttering thanks, before training his eyes determinedly at the table, letting the coffee warm his hands.

‘Stiles!’ Derek says, as his face emerges from behind his shirt. ‘How are you? Find us ok?’

‘Hi, Derek,’ Stiles nods, raising a hand in greeting. ‘I’m great. A little rough around the edges, but nothing coffee won’t sort out.’

He smiles at Rachel, who full-on beams back, pulling a jar off the counter-top.

‘Want a cookie with that?’ she says, offering him the jar. ‘They’re peanut butter. I don’t know if you like them, but… here.’

‘Like them?’ Stiles says, taking one. ‘I _love_ peanut butter cookies. There’s this place in town that sells the best PB cookies ever. I would probably sell my laptop for a box of them. They’re like gold dust.’ He takes a bite, and _fuck_ , they’re good. ‘Scratch that,’ he says, swallowing. ‘I would sell my _right arm_ for one of these.’

Rachel blushes violently as she stows the jar back where it came from.

Stiles stares at her, open mouthed. ‘Did you make them? Like from scratch?’

She nods as she sits down, brushes hair out of her face. ‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe.’

‘Well grandma knows how to make a mean cookie.’ Stiles winks, eats the rest of it without a word. He's enjoying the silence that’s fallen between them. He never had this with Amy, could never just sit and enjoy her company. They always had to _do_ something, or talk about something. It’s only now he’s looking back that he realises how exhausting it was.

 

Sipping his coffee, Stiles smiles, lets his gaze fall round the apartment. It’s so big, he’s not sure whether to be impressed or intimidated. In the end, he settles for impressed. Because there’s a distinct lack of _stuff_ that makes it look like one of those homes they photograph in magazines; simple, minimal, open. He takes in the wide floor plan, the two couches opposite the TV, scattered with cushions, the rug between them. He studies the bookshelf, the cabinets, the huge window stretched across an entire wall. Everything looks deliberate, like it has a purpose. It’s basically the complete opposite of Stiles’ room.

‘That’s gotta be a security problem,’ he says, nodding at the window.

Derek leans against the wall, shrugs as if it’s no big deal. ‘I carry a gun.’

Stiles grins, glancing instinctively at his hip, where it would usually be holstered. ‘Ever used it?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘Nope. Never had to.’

‘Ever wanted to?’ he asks, finishing his coffee.

Derek shrugs dismissively. ‘Maybe.’

‘I keep a baseball bat under my bed,’ Stiles continues. 'It's been there for as long as I can remember.'

‘Ever used it?’ Derek smirks, winking. Stiles has to clench his stomach to stop it flipping over.

‘Once,’ he says, lightly. ‘Back in high school, I used it against this massive douche trying to get a Freshman’s lunch money.’

‘What happened?’ Rachel asks, leaning foreword, resting her chin on her hands.

Stiles swallows, suddenly very aware of how much he’s talking. He never tells stories anymore. He didn’t know he still could. ‘I err…’ he says tentatively, biting his lip. ‘I hit him over the head with it.’

‘Did it stop him?’

‘No, actually. It shattered. And then the guy beat the crap out of me. After that, dad insisted I had an aluminium one. Because everyone knows-‘

‘Aluminium is better than wood.’ 

 

For a moment, Stiles is completely dazed, in awe of how Derek knew that, shocked by the familiarity in his tone.

Derek blushes. ‘Your dad same the same thing the day I joined the force,’ he says, rubbing the back of his head. ‘I liked baseball.’

Stiles smiles, lets his eyes drop to the table as he tries not to imagine Derek in a baseball uniform. Because just the idea is too much for Stiles’ brain to cope with.

‘Do you play any sports?’

Stiles flushes. ‘I run a bit, but I’m not very good.’

 

At his words, Rachel’s face lights up. She turns to Derek, a glint in her eye.

‘That’s funny,’ she says, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Derek does as well. Maybe you could go together sometime?’

Derek quirks his eyebrow at her, catching the expression on her face before his softens, grinning back just as wide. ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a new running partner.’

‘Are you _kidding me_?’ Stiles says, gaping at them. ‘I mean look at you. You’re all,’ he gestures at Derek wildly with his hands, ‘and I’m all.’ He points at his obviously less impressive physique, hoping they get what he’s trying to imply; that Derek would fucking _ruin_ him.

Derek shakes his head at the floor, like he finds Stiles absolutely hilarious. 

‘Gotta start somewhere,’ he shrugs. ‘Think of it as personal training.’

Stiles eyes him suspiciously. ‘Yeah, but training for what?’

Derek laughs, gestures wildly out the window. ‘I don’t know. _Life_.’

 

He looks so pleased with himself for a minute, that Stiles can’t help but laugh along, fuelled by the general happiness in the room.

Something about these two makes Stiles feel better than he has in years; more alert, awake, _alive_. There’s this kind of tingle in his gut that he can’t explain, like someone tickling the base of his spine. Stiles decides right away that it’s the best feeling in the entire world.

Stretching, he glances at the pair of them, washing their cups in the sink. His eyes follow Rachel to the fridge, who slips the milk away, shutting it carefully behind her.

‘Is that your son?’ Stiles asks, nodding at a picture of a young boy, around five years old, with blonde hair and big, green eyes.

Rachel scoffs, but glances fondly at the picture anyway, tracing the outline of his cheek with her hand.

‘No,’ she replies, turning back to Stiles. ‘That’s my little brother, Ben. He’s at school today, or you’d have probably met him.’

Stiles eyes widen in surprise. ‘He looks like you.’

 

‘Do you have any siblings?’ she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. Stiles shakes his head.

‘No, just me. Probably for the best, though. Imagine having two of me running around. Dad’s heart would give out.'

It's supposed to be a joke, but Stiles can’t help but inject an element of truth into his words. Because he knows he's right. His dad wouldn’t have coped.

‘My parents talked about it,’ he continues, voice a little softer than before. ‘I think they were planning to before she…’

 

Stiles stops talking, throat tightening, lungs burning, just like they always do when he talks about her.

Eyes shining, Rachel bolts from her chair and wraps her arms around him, clinging to his shirt for dear life. Stiles allows it. It’s nice. He hasn’t been hugged like this in a long time.

‘It’s ok,’ she whispers into his ear. ‘You can meet Ben. He’d love you to pieces, I know it.’

Stiles takes a moment to memorise the scent of her perfume, the feel of her hair against his cheek, so similar to his mother’s. He takes a moment to just be held like a child again, to feel small and looked after.

‘Thank you.’

 

When he looks back at Derek, he’s smiling sadly, leaning back against the kitchen cabinets. Stiles nods at him as Rachel lets go, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

‘Come on,’ he says, moving towards Stiles. ‘Lets go get you some clean clothes to change into, and then we can get started, okay?’

Stiles’ stomach jolts a little, mainly because of the statement, but also because Derek is offering him _clothes_. Jesus Christ.

‘Yeah, cool. Clothes. Great.’

 

He follows Derek into the bedroom, blinking hard. Because in all his wildest dreams, he never imagined he’d be in _Derek Hale’s_ bedroom. And he never expected it to be like this.

‘Something wrong?’ Derek asks, looking up from the drawer.

Stiles gestures around the room. ‘It’s just so… _white_.’

‘And that’s a problem because…?’

Stiles shakes his head. ‘It’s not a _problem_. I just didn’t expect it. You’re all dark and mysterious, but this,’ he does a grand sweep with his hand, ‘this is actually _inviting_. I like it.’

‘Thanks,’ Derek snorts, chucking clothes at him. ‘I think those’ll fit. You’re so lanky, I can’t tell.’

‘I’ll have you know I’m _very_ well developed, thank you.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ Derek replies, ducking his head to retrieve something from the floor.

When he emerges, Stiles has pulled on the sweatpants and hoodie, folding his own clothes neatly on the bed.

‘You can keep those if you like,’ Derek says, running his eyes down Stiles’ body. ‘I can’t wear them anymore. They look good on you.’

‘Thank you,’ Stiles mutters, trying not to think about how good Derek’s clothes smell or how much he wants to bury his face in them.

‘No problem,’ Derek smiles, leading the way out of the room. ‘Let’s do this, shall we?’

‘Yeah.’ Stiles nods, looks up at him determinedly. ‘Let’s do this.’

 

**Derek**

Derek set up the equipment in his study, mainly because it’s where he can concentrate best, but also because it’s quiet. There aren’t many distractions; it’s simple, peaceful, comfortable.

There’s a couch pushed against the far wall, covered in cushions, because Derek’s not going to pretend that he doesn’t like being comfy, a fluffy rug that Rachel brought him as a joke, but Derek ended up liking, and a coffee table littered with books and ornaments from various holidays.

Derek collects them all in one go, dumping them on the desk before turning back to Stiles, who’s bunched up on the couch, hugging his arms into his chest.

‘There’s no pressure here, ok?’ he says, sitting down beside him. ‘All I’m going to do is hit record and then we’re gonna talk. That’s it, ok?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

Stiles attempts a smile, but it’s flat, lifeless, quivering. His teeth tremble as he bites down on the inside of his lip, his eyes never leaving the recorder perched on the table.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Derek says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘You won’t even know it’s there. And nobody but me has to hear it, I promise. It’s just procedure.’

‘Only you,’ Stiles says, turing back to Derek.

‘Only me.’

 

Stiles considers him for a minute, his eyes narrowing only slightly as they flicker from Derek to the recorder.

‘Okay,’ he nods, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Great,’ Derek says, leaning over to flip the switch on. ‘This is Deputy Derek Hale of the Beacon Hills Police Department, interviewing Mr Stiles Stilinski on the thirteenth of July two thousand and fourteen, at eleven fifty-one am.’

He turns back to Stiles, who’s face has completely drained of colour. He wants to reach out, to _hold_ him, let him know it’s ok. But he has a job to do, and if he doesn’t do it now, he never will.

‘Okay, Stiles,’ he continues in what he hopes is a calming voice. ‘Can you tell me when you and Amy met?’

‘At college. We lived near each other.’

Derek nods approvingly, letting Stiles know that he’s doing fine, that he doesn’t have to give any more than necessary.

‘Brilliant. And when did you become romantically involved with her?’

‘In our second year. Our anniversary’s October twenty third.’

‘So this year would be your-‘

‘Third year, yeah.’

 

Stiles tugs uncomfortably at the sleeve of his hoodie, catching it over his fingers, as it twists around them. Derek hates the question he has to ask next.

‘And when did she start… When did you notice a change in her behaviour?’

 

He choses a different track at the last minute, wanting to soften the blow as much as possible. Stiles looks around the room, at the pictures on the desk, the piles of police reports on the floor, Derek’s shoes thrown haphazardly in the corner. He looks wistful.

‘About six months after we started dating. It was little things at first, like asking who I was with, checking my phone, talking to my friends. Then it just… gradually got worse.’

‘How did that affect you, Stiles?’

Stiles squirms, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. ‘I don’t know really. I just… I mean, I stopped hanging out with my friends as much. I studied more so I could spend time with Amy in the evening. I stopped calling my dad at the weekends.’

Derek shifts in his chair, _itching_ to say something comforting, to help. But the red light on the recorder reminds him that his job is to get this done, no matter how hard it is.

‘That’s great, Stiles. Would you be able to tell me when she started displaying any… abusive behaviours?’

 

Derek knows they’re in trouble as soon as the words lead his mouth. Stiles’ whole chest seems to deflate, his hands curl into fists, trembling in his lap.

This time, it’s Derek who has to bite the inside of his mouth. All he wants to do is stop the recording, to let him keep things private, to save him the pain of reliving everything. But he wants Stiles to be happy. And at the moment, nothing matters more than getting what he wants.

 

**Stiles**

 He blinks away the tears angrily, running a hand over his face with the sleeve of his, _Derek’s_ , hoodie.

His hands curl into fists around the soft material, cushioning his hands as his fingernails dig into his palms. Stiles hoped it would stop the shaking, but if anything, it’s made it worse.

He opts for wrapping his arms around himself instead, letting himself sink back into the pillows behind him.

‘Around our one year anniversary,’ he whispers, refusing to look up at Derek. ‘She… she broke my arm.’

‘Which arm did she break?’

The words leave Derek as a growl, low and dangerous. Stiles looks up, lets his eyes flicker across his face. He’s angry, hands gripping the knees of his jeans so tight, his knuckles are white.

‘Right,’ Stiles supplies, eyes never leaving Derek’s hands. He feels like he needs to explain himself, to help people understand _why_ he let her do that to him, why he let his family, his friends, slip away. He wants _Derek_ to understand, because somehow, his distress is so much worse than anyone else’s.

‘I did love her, you know, at first. She wasn’t always like that. After a while, I stayed to protect my dad. He has enough to worry about. I was enough trouble as a kid. I wanted him to feel like I wasn’t a burden anymore.’

His voice is low, barely above a mumble, but he knows Derek heard, because in the next second, he’s reaching out to the recorder, murmuring softly, ‘That concludes this interview. The time is twelve thirty-five pm.’

 

**Derek**

Before Derek can stop himself, register the consequences of his actions, he’s reaching out for Stiles, pulling him into a hug that he hopes takes the weight of his pain.

It’s quick, meaningless, Stiles’ face pressed into his shirt for no more than five seconds, but it defuses the tension in the room almost immediately.

 

When Stiles pulls away, his eyes are red and bloodshot, but his breathing is steadier, his heart is calmer. He even looks _comfortable_ , curled up in Derek’s old sweatpants and hoodie. It makes Derek smile, regardless of how helpless he feels.

‘You’re not a burden, you know,’ he says, picking idly at a loose thread on the pillow beside him. ‘All your dad ever talks about is how proud he is of you.’

‘He shouldn’t be,’ Stiles sighs, staring blankly at his knees. ‘There isn’t much to be proud of.’

 

Derek clears his throat, looking around the room for inspiration. Because he has to find _something_ that makes Stiles believe he isn’t as worthless as he thinks he is.

Slowly, his eyes pass over the picture of him, Rachel and Ben at the beach. They’re smiling, covered in sand. Ben’s missing his front tooth. It makes Derek ache that Stiles doesn’t know what that’s like, to be with someone who loves him.

Then it hits Derek, like a brick to the face. It hits him so hard, and so fast, he’s actually winded for a second, taken aback by how absolutely _stupid_ he’s been. Because even though he knows what family, what safety feels like, there was a time when he didn’t. There was a time when he was in exactly the same position Stiles is in now. And the realisation breaks his heart.

‘Would you believe me if I told you, I know exactly how you feel?’

Stiles’ eyes dart up inquisitively, glancing at the photo on the desk. ‘What’d you-?’

‘Rachel isn’t the first person I’ve dated.’

 

Realisation floods over Stiles’ face and he scoots closer to Derek, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder.

‘What happened?’

Derek takes a deep breath, his lungs suddenly tight and heavy, like someone’s squeezing them. He pushes the sensation away, focusing on Stiles’ hand, which is gently rubbing his shoulder.

‘My first girlfriend,’ he starts, wincing at the way his voice cracks. ‘I met her in Senior Year. She was older, in her first year of college.’

He pauses a second, scrubbing a hand over his face, which is suddenly warm and clammy.

‘What was her name?’ Stiles asks quietly, lowering his hand in his lap. Derek doesn’t think about how empty he feels without it.

‘Kate,’ he says, clenching his hands in his lap. ‘And I really thought I loved her. I gave her… I gave her everything.’

‘So what went wrong?’ Stiles asks.

Derek laughs dryly, rolling his eyes. ‘What didn’t?’

 

He swallows hard, biting the inside of his mouth painfully, the bitter, metallic taste of blood rushing over his tongue. This is the part he’s never told anyone. Not even Cora.

He doesn’t know why Stiles is so different. Maybe it’s because he knows Stiles will understand, maybe it’s something else, but it feels right, telling him. Like everything’s been leading up to this point, this moment when he can use it to help Stiles.

He runs a hand over the back of his head and sighs.

‘The day after my seventeenth birthday. I was at school with Cora. We didn’t now until it was too late…’

 

Before he can stop it, he’s blinking back tears, sniffing dully into the sleeve of his shirt. Stiles shifts next to him, his knee knocking softly against his own.

‘What did she do to you, Derek?’

Derek looks up at the ceiling, gains control of his breathing, his heart, which is beating a hundred times a minute. He presses his knuckles into his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut, then starts talking.

‘My house… she… she burnt it down.’

His voice is almost a whisper when he adds, ‘My whole family were inside.’

 

An emptiness engulfs Derek that he hasn’t felt in a long time. A kind of hopeless longing at the back of his throat that wants to turn to tears, to be shouted out, _screamed_ into life.

For a moment, anger flares in his gut, burning with a ferocity he thought he’d never feel again. It hurts. It hurts _so badly_ , he doesn’t know how he ever managed to be happy again. He doesn’t know how he managed to put one foot in front of the other.

And now he can’t breathe, lungs burning for oxygen as his chest heaves in and out, tears burning his eyes as he doubles over, burring his face in his knees. He wants to disappear, to melt away, to lose anything that ties him to that house, the fire, his family. He wants to get rid of the smell of acrid smoke from his nostrils, constantly there, always reminding him of what happened, what _he_ did. He wants to forget. But somehow, he knows that’s completely impossible.

 

Derek can’t see, but he knows Stiles is moving closer, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, squeezing his arm encouragingly. His breath hitches in his chest as Stiles sighs softly in his ear, a shiver running down his spine.

‘You know,’ Stiles says, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘When my mother died, I blamed myself for a lot of things. I thought I should have done something, _more_ , to keep her alive. I thought I should have been able to stop it. But you know what, Derek? I was a eleven. I was a kid. There was nothing I could do.’

He pauses a second, taking a deep breath, his hand twitching against Derek’s shoulder. Derek can already feel his pulse slow as he frowns down at the floor.

‘Kate wasn’t your fault,’ he continues, more confidence in his tone. ‘You were a kid, Derek. You can’t keep blaming yourself for things you can’t control.’

‘I know,’ Derek sniffs, finally sitting up. His eyes are red and blood-shot, itchy from the constant rubbing. ‘But do you… Can you see why I wanted you to give that statement? Does it make sense now?’

‘I get it, Derek,’ he says, retracing his arm. ‘And I get why you told me about Kate.’

He sighs, scrunches his face up for a second, as if he’s talking himself into something. Derek just sits and waits, lets him make his decision.

After a moment, Stiles’s features relax, his hands drop to his lap.

‘I’ll do it,’ he murmurs, eyes flickering to the photo on the desk. ‘I’ll tell my dad.’


	5. Just Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s still thinking about Stiles when his own phone buzzes a few minutes later. He looks, and Stiles’ number flashes across the screen, displaying a single sentence, _‘Make sure my dad doesn’t eat crap all day.’ ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a new chapter guys! I really hope you're enjoying this story. It's so much fun to write, and I'm sorry that it's such a slow build, but honestly, I hope that the ending will be worth it when it eventually comes! 
> 
> Next chapter, I can promise fluff and cute domestic stuff, so if you love that kinda thing, get ready :D
> 
> If you like it, please leave a comment! I love reading them, and I try my best to reply to all of them! I hope you like it- enjoy :)

**Stiles**

The ride home is quiet, neither of them talking much. Stiles stares out the window of Derek’s old Camaro, following the line of trees leading into the forrest as they take a shortcut round the edge of town.

He tries to imagine living in there, but has a hard time picturing it. Years of living in the suburbs have hardened him against anything inconvenient or unusual, making it almost impossible to imagine home as anything other than bright lights and paved streets. He’s never even considered that people could actually _live_ in the forrest. He always assumed those old stories his dad told him were true, that there were things he couldn’t explain running through those woods; wolves the size of small horses, or screaming women searching for their dying children.

Stiles even remembers listening out for them every so often, convinced that he heard something, a howl or a scream; the sound of children laughing. After that, he never thought to consider the forrest as anything other than just that; a collection of trees grown to hide the monsters. He’s never stopped to think that maybe the _real_ monsters, the ones that _really_ matter, are a lot closer to home.

 

‘What was it like?’ Stiles asks eventually, nodding towards the trees. ‘Living in there?’

Derek’s hands tighten against the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white for a second before he softens his grip. Stiles glances sideways, notices how Derek’s eyes occasionally search the trees, like he's looking for something between them, searching for something that isn’t there.

‘Nice,’ he replies quietly. ‘I mean, there was a lot of space to run around. We were a big family, so it was just easier to live away from the suburbs.’

‘Weren’t you worried?’ Stiles asks, looking back out the window. ‘Never got scared of the monsters?’

It’s meant as a joke, but Stiles can’t help but turn it into a question. His natural inquisitiveness wins again.

Derek laughs though, properly, like, _loudly_. It’s so loud, Stiles actually jumps in his seat.

‘Monsters?’ he asks, wiping away the wetness in his eyes. ‘No, sorry. We were too busy defending ourselves against the family of bunnies in our back yard.’

He pauses, winks at Stiles. ‘You haven’t seen scary until you try to take a baby rabbit away from it’s parents.’

Stiles huffs, but laughs anyway, rolling his eyes. ’Alright then. What stories were _you_ told as a kid?’

 

Derek falls silent for a minute and concentrates on the road ahead, avoiding as many traffic lights and stops signs as possible. Then he clears his throat.

‘My mother used to tell us stories to teach us, to help us when we grew up. There was one,’ he says, rounding anther corner so that they’re parallel with the trees again, ‘about a fox and a wolf. Basically, the wolf threatens to eat the fox if he didn’t get him food. In the end, the wolf eats too much and gets caught by a peasant, while the fox eats nothing and gets away.’

He pauses a second, his cheeks turning pink before he adds, ‘It was better when mom told it.’

Stiles smiles sadly at him, pats his knee gently. ’So what’s the moral?’ he asks. ‘Never trust a fox?’

Derek snorts and shakes his head. ‘I took it as a lesson in not being a greedy asshole. But yeah, that works too.’

 

‘They’d be proud, you know.’

The words slip out before his brain has a chance to stop them. Stiles winces when Derek looks at him, and tries to pretend his ears aren’t burning.

‘I mean,’ he splutters, making wild, flailing gestures in his direction, ‘you kicked ass, man. You’re awesome- doing- did- awesome. I just… God, sorry. I was just thinking out loud.’

He slides further into his seat, and covers with his face with his hands, groaning out loud.

Surprisingly, Derek laughs, _again_. Stiles likes it. It almost distracts him from how unbelievably embarrassed he is. He ruffles his hair affectionately, tugging gently to make Stiles sit up in his seat. Stiles follows easily, moving back into a normal position, glancing sheepishly in Derek’ direction.

‘Thanks, Stiles,’ he says, grinning at the steering wheel. He takes three more turns before he adds, ‘And for the record, I always kick ass.’

Stiles tries to push the mental image of Derek’s ass out of his head, laughs his way through the process. Because Derek has a beautiful, organised, successful, _baking_ girlfriend. And Stiles? Well, he’s just about as far away from that as you can possibly get. 

 

*

 

When they pull up next to Stiles’ house, he’s fucking exhausted. Like, head against the window, staring into space kind of exhausted. He doesn’t even realise it’s his house until Derek clears his throat and announces, ‘Home sweet home.’

‘Sorry,’ Stiles blurts out, snapping himself awake. ‘Sorry. Home. Right.’

He gropes around aimlessly for the door handle, managing to catch it and pull enough for the door to swing open. He takes two steps before his dad’s there, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug that Stiles _swears_ does some kind of internal damage. He hugs back anyway, liking the way his dad takes all his weight into his arms. He smells like soap and gunpowder and coffee, and it reminds him of the days he spent at the station as a kid. It makes him hold his dad a little tighter.

 

‘Have a good day?’ John asks, holding Stiles at arms length, hands gripping his shoulders so he can look him up and down. Distantly, Stiles remembers the cut on his neck and rubs it absent-mindedly, pulls his collar up a little higher.

‘It was great,’ he says, pointing at the bag in Derek’s hands. ‘They gave me cookies. Can’t really get much better than that.’

‘That’s nice,’ John replies, ruffling Stiles’ hair. ‘Why don’t you take them inside? Have a shower?’

 

It’s a clear dismissal, but at this point Stiles is too tired to care. He nods, forces a smile. ‘Sure.’

He waves once to Derek, then walks away, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Because all he wants to do is curl into bed and sleep for days, but his bed is so _far away_ , it makes him want to cry.

He contemplates asking Derek to carry him, rejects the idea immediately and forces his way through the (new) front door, into the hallway. He can hear them talking behind him, but he doesn’t bother to try and listen in. His head is spinning, and he has this weird hallow sensation in his stomach that makes him feel like he’s hungry, or about to throw up.

It’s a miracle when he makes it to the shower, dumping Derek’s clothes on his desk chair as he goes.

He lets the water get really hot before staggering in, letting it burn away the memories from yesterday, lulling him into an easy weightlessness.

As soon as he’s dry, he crawls into bed, falls asleep almost instantly, not noticing how his sheets no longer smell like home, or how the first thing he thought to put on were Derek’s old sweatpants.

 

**Derek**

When Derek first met Rachel, it had been raining. Torrentially raining. He saw her standing outside the police station, soaking wet, dancing awkwardly to keep warm.

He’d waited ten minutes before dragging her in, telling her he’d call someone to come and get her. She’d told him not to bother. He’d done it anyway.

They’d spent the next three hours talking, Rachel dressed in one of Derek’s spare uniforms while her clothes dried. They’d never really stopped talking ever since.

 

Now, Derek’s deputy, and Rachel’s a successful fashion designer and blogger, about to launch her own line of unique dresses that Derek’s told will be sold for thousands of pounds. Each. It’s almost like things are finally falling into place.

That’s why, when he walks into his apartment later that evening, shattered and half asleep, it’s like a freaking dream when he sees her, curled up on the sofa, in her pyjamas eating pizza out of a takeaway box.

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ he says, collapsing next to her on the couch. He reaches over to take some pizza, but she swats his hand away, mumbling through a mouthful of dough.

‘Yours is in the kitchen.’

Derek doesn’t even mind that she sprays him with tomato sauce. He leans over and kisses her cheek, wipes the corner of her mouth with his thumb, then bounds to the kitchen and carries his pizza box back like it’s his first born child. Needless to say, he’s pretty damn tired.

 

He makes it through half his pizza before he notices Rachel’s laptop illuminating the couch around them. He looks over at the screen, and that’s _definitely_ not Pinterest.

‘Are you _still_ working?’ he asks, putting his box down on the table.

‘It’s just admin stuff, I promise,’ she yawns, eyes never leaving the screen.

Derek slumps against her, glancing over the list of emails and requests slowly clogging up her inbox. He shakes his head. ‘Rachel, you’ve _got_ to get someone to help you with this. You know it’s too much.’

He leans over and closes the laptop. ‘You can reply to those later.’

Rachel groans and runs a hand over her face, which, now Derek looks a little closer, is pale, washed out, like she hasn’t slept in days.

‘There’s just so much to do!’ she says, dropping her head back against the couch. ‘I’m never going to get it all finished.’

‘Well the blog post was up on time,’ Derek says, tucking his arm under her neck. ‘And you got those sketches done at the hospital. Isn’t that everything?’

Rachel frowns. ‘I wish.’

 

She stands up, ignoring Derek when he whines at the sudden cold air assaulting his skin. She grabs her sketch book and drags it back to the sofa, drops it into Derek’s lap, flipping to a page near the back, where there’s at least four different dresses drawn out in relatively good detail, obviously half finished.

Derek traces one of them with his finger, following the soft twist and turns of the fabric, missing the parts not drawn in yet.

‘These aren’t your show pieces.’

‘No,’ Rachel sighs, ‘they’re for a friend. She asked me to make her a wedding dress-‘

‘Wedding dress?’ Derek cuts across her, eyebrows raised. ‘I thought you only did regular clothes.’

‘I make high fashion pieces, Derek. My blog is about _‘regular clothes_.’ She makes little quotation marks with her fingers over the last words. ‘But this is different. It’s a friend, and I kind of owe her one.’

Derek huffs. ‘Fine, but don’t overdo it. We don’t want you burning out before the show.’

 

She hums for a moment, her eyes closed as she sinks into Derek, a smile creeping into the corner of her mouth. Derek gives himself a second just to feel her breathe beside him, to let his exhaustion wash over him. His eyes flicker to Rachel as she snuggles in closer, twisting her feet around his.

She looks soft, beautiful. Nothing like Kate. She was all sharp edges, teeth and claws and anger. Rachel’s rounded, gentle, deliberate. She’s pretty much perfect for him.

 

‘Do I ever say how proud I am of you?’

Her voice is loud in his head when she speaks again, like she’s talking into a microphone.

Derek blinks away the tiredness, yawns and mutters, ‘What’d you mean?'

‘You told him about Kate,’ she mumbles, shifting slightly against him. ‘Took some major balls.’

Derek huffs but smiles anyway, knowing she can’t see it. ‘I was just doing my-‘

‘No, Derek,’ she says. ‘You literally saved his life. That’s a little out your job description, don’t you think?’

‘I guess, but-‘

She tuts, lifts a hand up to swat lazily at his face. She misses, but Derek leans into it regardless. ‘Shut up, Derek. You’re a hero. A silly, overly attractive, _dumbass_. But you’re still a hero. Start acting like one.’

 

She sighs happily and turns onto her back, head resting against Derek’s thigh as she stretches out across the rest of the couch. ‘You should tell him, you know.’

‘Tell him what?’ Derek asks, twisting his fingers through her hair.

‘About your unicorn collection,’ she replies, tone dripping sarcasm. ‘Tell him you’re a werewolf, dumbass.’

 

Derek stiffens, jaw clenched for a second. He never considered telling anyone else, never trusted anyone enough.

Rachel had found out a few weeks after they’d moved in together, when she’d accentually brought mistletoe into the house for Christmas, and Derek had almost wolfed out right in front of her. He remembers her face when his eyes flashed red, as his finger nails grew into claws. He remembers the confusion, the fear on her face. He remembers how long it’d taken her to get used to it, how hard it was. That’s the last thing he wants to do to Stiles.

But there is this nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that tells him she’s right. Because he _wants_ Stiles in his pack. Even if he’s human, and a little broken, and probably rough around the edges. Derek wants him around. And he’s pretty sure Rachel does as well.

 

‘I’ll think about it,’ he says finally, putting his feet up on the coffee table. Rachel smiles.

‘Good. It’ll be nice having another human around for a change.’

‘What about Ben?’

‘A human I can have a _conversation_ with,’ she sighs, turning over onto her side. ‘Now shhh. Your supernatural heat’s making me sleepy.’

 

**Stiles**

 Stiles wakes up to the sound of pans rattling downstairs and the unmistakeable smell of pancakes wafting into his room through the open door.

‘Oh my _God_.’

 

He tries to stand up, but ends up sort of tumbling out of bed, landing in a heap on the floor.

Cursing under his breath, he staggers to his door and kicks it shut, letting the wall of silence sooth his aching head.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He knows he came home with Derek, knows he took a shower, but he has no idea how he got from the bathroom to his bed without somehow falling down the stairs. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He must have been pretty out of it if he didn’t even shut his door. Because that’s, like, Stiles bedroom 101: the door is _always_ closed. Illicit activities tend to require a little privacy. That and he doesn’t want his dad to catch him jerking off without a fair bit of warning.

 

Grabbing his duvet, Stiles twists it around himself and falls, like a human burrito, back onto his bed, burying his face in the sheets, snuggling down until he’s warm, eyes safe from the sun. He doesn’t know what time it is, and he doesn’t care. Because all he wants is to stay in his burrito of warmth and sleep days, _weeks_ if he can get away with it. Nearly dying really takes it out of you.

He’s just pondering the benefits of living permanently inside his bedding when a voice calls from downstairs, ‘Stiles! Was that you?’

 

He lets out a strangled moan that _could_ be an attempt at polite conversation, but doesn’t bother to supply anything else. It’s too early. Instead, he goes back to sleeping, and waits for the voice to find him. Maybe if he ignores it, it’ll just go away.

‘Stiles?’

Or not.

 

There’s a knock at the door, followed by the squeak of it’s hinges as it opens. Stiles groans and unrolls himself from the sheets, scrubbing harshly at his eyes until he can see properly.

‘Dad, what’s the point of knocking if you don’t at least wait for a response?’

‘No time for that, son,’ John says, flinging the curtains open. ‘The day’s wasting.’

‘Dad, it’s _eight am_ ,’ Stiles whines, cringing away from the light flooding in through his window, catching a glimpse of his clock. ‘There are prisoners in federal facilities that don’t have to be awake at this time.’

John rolls his eyes. ‘Trust me, son. They wouldn’t have you.’

 

‘Im just _saying_ ,’ Stiles moans as he follows his dad down the stairs. ‘People shouldn’t have to wake up before ten _at least_. I read online that people who sleep-‘

‘Stiles,’ John says, turning around so fast, Stiles has to grab the bannister to stop himself launching straight into him. ‘Can you maybe save the lecture for after breakfast? I have to be at the station in an hour, and I didn’t make all those pancakes for them to go cold.’

Stiles nods and swallows his remark about how he could talk _and_ eat, realising that he might end up with nothing whatsoever. Stiles is many things, but stupid is not one of them. And giving up the opportunity to eat pancakes on a regular weekday would be just about the stupidest thing he could ever do.

 

He makes it through three pancakes and a cup of coffee before Stiles realises something’s up. His dad’s being nice, _too_ nice for such an average morning. He’s piling Stiles’ plate high, engaging in small talk, _smiling_. It’s really fucking weird.

‘Alright,’ he says eventually, throwing his fork back on his plate, ‘what’s going on?’

‘Stiles,’ John sighs, putting his mug down on the table, ‘nothing’s going on. I made breakfast. You’ve eaten breakfast for twenty three years. Why are you fining the concept so challenging now?’

The look he gives Stiles is so fond, he doesn’t know what to do with it. To make up for the awkward dad staring, he shoves a whole pancake in his mouth at once, lets himself chew it slowly before replying.

‘I’m not finding the concept challenging, so much as I’m fining the idea of you cooking impossible.’

John’s face drops, affronted. ‘Hey, I cook!’

‘Yes you do,’ Stiles says with a grin. ‘You cook pancakes. Specifically birthday pancakes, which you only cook on my birthday.’

John winces. ‘Oh.’

 

‘Right,’ Stiles says, making a wild gesture with his fork. ‘So back to my original question. What’s going on?

He takes another bite as he waits for his dad to reply, because wasting birthday pancakes is akin to a federal crime in the Stilinski household.

Speaking of their house, Stiles didn’t notice how _clean_ everything is. The sink is literally _gleaming_ , like it’s fresh out of a showroom, the floor is actually white for a change, and the walls don’t have gravy stains splattered across them anymore. It’s hard to believe that it was covered in his blood not twenty-four hours ago. The officers must have worked really hard for it to-

 

Stiles drops his fork. ‘Oh.’

John jumps up from his chair, kneels in front of him, eyes scanning his body as if he expects something to fall off at any second. Stiles just stares at him, open mouthed.

_‘Oh.’_

 

Without warning, Stiles launches himself into his dad’s arms, hugging him tightly, swaying gently on the spot. ‘Oh my god, dad. I’m so sorry.’

John pulls away, hold Stiles at arms length. ‘What’re you talking about?’

Stiles manages a tired smile. ‘You talked to Derek, didn’t you?’

 

For a moment, John tries to laugh it off, but Stiles is ready for it. He’s had years of his dad laughing away problems, pretending they don’t exist. They say you learn from your parents, and Stiles has learned from the best. But they’ve been running too long, and Stiles is honestly a little tired of it.

'Ok,’ John says under the look Stiles gives him. ‘I spoke to Derek. But I didn’t want to rush you. I- I just want you to be ok. And if that means waiting a while for-‘

‘I want to do it.’ Stiles’ gaze flickers over his face, and before he can protest, Stiles continues. ‘I’ve been a shitty son for the last three years, dad. I don’t want to be like that any more.’

John scoffs, claps Stiles on the back. ‘Stiles, you don’t owe me anything. All I want is for you to be happy.’

He heads towards the living room, beckoning Stiles to follow him. ‘You could leave me in a home for the rest of my life, and I wouldn’t care, as log as it made you happy.’

‘First,’ Stiles says, flopping down on the sofa, ‘I’d never put you in a home. Have you seen how much they cost? I’d be scrubbing floors for the rest of my life just to pay off the debt. And two,’ he continues, holding up two fingers, ‘I’d miss you too much.’

John smiles. ‘Thanks, son.’

‘Can’t make me pancakes from a home.’

John throws a cushion at him.

 

Laughing, Stiles catches it, contemplates throwing it back, but ends up hugging it to his chest instead, holding in the sudden tightness in his lungs. He takes a deep breath, and turns to his dad.

‘You really want me to tell you? Everything? Even the bad stuff?’

‘Anything you’re willing to say.’

Stiles sighs, looks determinedly into his dad’s eyes, notices how they look younger, less burdened, burning with shielded joy. It makes his heart sink that he has to do this, to tell him things that’ll completely change that. But he knows he has to do it. He’s been lying too long. It’s time he knew the truth.

With that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach, he takes one last deep breath, then talks, flat and emotionless, until his lungs are burning and the pillow is no longer enough to anchor him.

 

**Derek**

 Half an hour into his shift, and the Sheriff still hasn’t arrived.

Derek phones him once, leaves a voicemail, and then gets on with some paperwork, checking over the notes Isaac sent him about Stiles’ medical exam. It’s long and boring and way over his head, but it distracts him enough to stop him worrying.

An hour into his shift, and things are tense. Derek can tell the other officers are nervous, twiddling their thumbs. He wishes he could do something about it, but he’s just as nervous as them. It’s not everyday the Sheriff goes missing.

 

‘Why don’t you just _phone_ him,’ Erica says after an hour and fifteen minutes. ‘I can’t write this report anymore. It’s killing me.’

‘I’ve already tried that,’ Derek growls, rolling his eyes over his paperwork. ‘And considering I taught you how to write a report, you should know that there is always more to add.’

‘Not this time,’ she huffs, slamming the thin file down in front of him. ‘There’s only so much you can write about stolen cereal before you lose your mind.’

 

Derek glances up from Isaac’s detailed descriptions of the various parts of Stiles’ anatomy, and frowns at her, cocking his head to get a better view.

‘Stolen cereal?’ he asks. ‘Why would someone steal cereal?’

‘You tell me,’ Erica says, flipping the file open. ‘Apparently when the owner got to the store, he found nothing out of place, except five boxes of missing cereal, three empty racks of granola bars, and five litres of water, all gone.’

‘And no sign of a forced entry?’

She shakes her head. ‘None at all. I guessed it had to be someone with a key, but considering there’s only one, and it belongs to the owner, I think it’s highly unlikely.’

 

Derek rests his head on his palm, thinking it all over. On the surface, it looks like a regular, petty theft. But on the other hand, Derek’s sceptical. There must be _something_ they’re not seeing.

‘So if it wasn’t the owner, and there wasn’t a forced entry, that means the person that did it had a key.’

‘Right. And has a massive hard on for cereal.’

Derek sighs and shakes his head, but really, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting. This _is_ Erica. She probably wouldn’t know subtlety if it reached out and hit her in the face.

‘I’m going to pretend that you _didn’t_ just say that.’ he says, looking back at the file.

As crimes go, this is pretty weird. He scans Erica’s notes, noticing that the owner leaves cash in the till overnight, doesn’t put shutters on the alcohol cabinet, and from what Derek can see, he pretty much just leaves stock lying around. Why would someone break in, walk past a till full of cash, and steal cereal instead?

 

It hits him the third time he reads through the file, and it’s so simple, he’s actually worried he might be losing his touch.

'All these items are non-perishable.’

Erica snorts, rolls her eyes. ’Thanks for that, captain obvious. They don’t call you ‘Deputy’ for nothing, now, do they?’

Derek growls at her, low and dangerous, raising an eyebrow. ‘What I meant,’ he says, pointing at the file, ‘is that the person who stole those items probably doesn’t have a permanent address. Or at least not one with working power. None of those items need to be kept cold.’

Erica flashes an absolutely shit-eating grin before dropping back into the spare chair, clapping her hands together.

‘Right, then. I’ll put it down as ‘Hungry Hobo,’ and be done with it, shall I?’

Derek sighs. ‘You’re imposible.’

She winks at him. ‘You love it.’

 

Derek’s just about to come up with a response when the door opens, followed by a very flushed, bleary eyed Sheriff, carrying a tray of coffee and a box of doughnuts from the place across the street.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says breathlessly, dropping the box on his desk. ‘Got caught up at home.’

He looks down at the coffee in his hands, pointing at the two towards the front. ‘Skinny, no cream, vanilla latte for you.’ He gestures at Erica. ‘And a black coffee, three sugars for Boyd.’

Erica takes them, tucking the file under her arm. ‘Thanks, Sheriff. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some missing cereal to find.’

She grins at Derek one more time before nudging the door open with her hip and disappears down the corridor.

 

Derek listens to her all the way back to her office, laughing as she yells, ‘ _Because I’m the favourite, jackass!_ ’ at Jackson, who complains mercilessly about the ‘pile of shit,’ coffee in the break room.

It takes a minute for him to notice John staring at him, coffee still in hand. ‘Black, no sugar?’

‘Perfect,’ Derek thanks, taking the cup from him. ‘Just what I need.’

John smiles, slides into his desk chair. ‘Not a problem. Thought you guys deserved a treat after the last few days.’

 

Derek nods, and they both fall into an easy silence, making notes on their individual cases, slowly sipping their coffee. He looks over his file three times, concludes that, yes, it _was_ arson, before he notices John’s foot twitching, his eyes darting to Derek’s desk every few seconds.

‘Is something wrong?’ he asks, slipping the photos of the charred litter bin back into it’s file. John looks up instantly, smiles and shakes his head.

‘Sorry, I just…’ he says, holding his hands up, ‘I don’t know what you said to Stiles, but I just want to say thank you. He hasn’t spoken to me like that in years. It was like I had my old son back, you know? So, whatever you did, whatever you told him… thank you.’

 

Derek sits looking at him for a moment, and then offers a small smile, tapping the edge of his coffee cup. ‘It’s nothing, sir. I just… gave him incentive.’

 _‘I bet you did,’_ Erica whispers from the next room, and _of course_ she’s eavesdropping. What else would she do?

Making a mental note to pay her back later, Derek swallows a mouthful of coffee and shrugs. ‘Honestly, though, I didn’t say much. If he’s told you anything, it’s all on his own merit. I just gave him a nudge in the right direction.’

‘You could have given him a kick up the arse and I wouldn’t care,’ John says, picking out a doughnut and offering Derek the box. ‘He looks happy. And he slept like a baby. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you drugged him. He didn’t even shut his door.’

‘And that’s a problem because…?’

John laughs through a mouthful of icing. ‘Stiles _always_ shuts his door. It’s a rule he made up in high school. I think there’s even a handbook somewhere…’

 

Derek takes another sip of coffee, watching as John wipes his hands on a paper towel. He looks tired, _exhausted_ even. Derek’s not even sure he’s slept since he showed up at the hospital.

‘Does that handbook have any rules involving his dad and sleep? Because from the look of you, that’s a rule that definitely needs to be enforced.’

John laughs, rubs his face with his hand. ‘No, but there _is_ a rule about me eating junk food at work. Do me a favour and don’t tell Stiles about this,’ he says, indicating the doughnuts and coffee. ‘He’ll have me eating salad for weeks.’

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Derek grins, turning back to his notes. ‘I wouldn’t inflict that on anyone.’

 

Two minutes later, John’s phone rings. He groans as he glances at the caller, tilts it so Derek can see. He laughs as a picture of Stiles stares back at him, noticing how young he looks, before John pulls the phone away.

‘It’s like he just knows when I’ve done something I shouldn’t.’

He presses the answer button and turns away, talking quietly into the phone. Derek ignores him, and goes back to his case files, quietly sipping his coffee and checking his emails. He’s almost finished his paperwork when John puts the phone down, his face burning bright red.

‘He just wanted to make sure I got to work ok. He was pretty shaken up when I left him.’

‘So he didn’t know about the doughnuts?’ John snorts.

‘No, of course he did. I forgot his friend from college works there. Must’ve recognised me. That’s why I was so long. He gave me a lecture on the effects of trans fat on the cardiovascular system.’

‘At least it’s educational,’ Derek laughs, throwing his cup in the trash. ‘Did he study Biology at college?’

‘English,’ John replies, dropping his own cup in the bin. ‘That reminds me. I need to get him off that laptop. Kid learns too much. I can’t keep up.’

 

Derek grins at the thought of nights spent listening to Stiles ramble on about the things he’s looked up online, rubbing circles into his back as he lazily listens to his voice, watches his eyes light up. He thinks about the things he could _learn_ from Stiles, how smart he must be. There’s probably a hundred layers to Stiles, and it’s so weird that Derek’s only just skimmed the surface.

He’s still thinking about Stiles when his own phone buzzes a few minutes later. He looks, and Stiles’ number flashes across the screen, displaying a single sentence, _‘Make sure my dad doesn’t eat crap all day.’_

Derek laughs and looks back at John, who’s eyebrows are getting closer to his hairline. He tosses the phone at him, watches his eyes light up a little, before he says, ‘You know what, sir? I think he’s gonna be just fine.’


	6. Favourite By Default

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott looks up and points at him, affronted.
> 
> ‘Favouritism!’ he bellows, yelping as Derek kicks him softly in the stomach.
> 
> ‘His dad’s my boss,’ he says, winking at Stiles. ‘He’s favourite by default.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where Derek gets a million cute, fluffy nicknames for no reason whatsoever. 
> 
> I've been a little sick this week, and completely freaking out about results day tomorrow (A Levels suck), so sorry if there are mistakes! I do my best, but I'm a little sleepy right now.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think in the comments! Hope you enjoy! Thanks for sticking with me through this story- it's about to start getting exciting :D

**Stiles**

_‘Stiles, for the last time, I haven’t eaten any doughnuts.’_

‘I’m just checking, Dad. You know they’re-‘

 _‘Bad for my heart,’_ John says. _‘I know. You’ve told me four times already.’_

 

Even down the phone, John sounds fed up. Stiles probably would be too, in his position. But it’s not his fault his dad has high cholesterol and a quite frankly ridiculous obsession with junk food.

‘I only do this because I care,’ he says, tapping his fingers against the kitchen counter. ‘I’d quite like to have you around for the foreseeable future.’

John sighs. ‘ _Is this a part of your_ 'be a better son,’ _‘_ _scheme?’_

‘Maybe.’

_'You don’t need to be better Stiles. Just happy.’_

Stiles laughs, kicks the kitchen cabinet softly with the tip of his shoe. ‘Yeah, well, refusing you the right to eat crap makes me happy, okay? Can you just accept that?’

 _‘I’ll accept it when you stop compensating,’_ John says. _‘You never cared about my food habits before.’_

‘I was a terrible son before,’ Stiles explains. ‘Trust me, dad, it’s all part of the plan.’

_‘It’s a terrible plan.’_

Stiles bites his lip. ‘I know.’

 

They lapse into silence for a second, Stiles listening to the sound of his dad’s breathing through the receiver. Even over the phone, Stiles can tell how exhausted he is. He wonders when he last slept properly, wonders why he never thought to check.

 _‘Stiles,’_ John says, as if reading his mind. _‘Why’d you really keep ringing me?’_

‘What’d you mean?’ Stiles says, nervously. ‘It’s-‘

 _‘Part of the plan, I know,’_ John interrupts. _‘Does that plan involve lying to me?’_

‘No,’ Stiles sighs. ‘Of course not.’

 _‘Then tell me,’_ John says. _‘What’s wrong?’_

 

Stiles doesn’t reply straight away. He has the words on the tip of his tongue, but every time he tries to speak, the words die on his tongue, jam in his throat. So he settles for sighing, hopes his dad will understand.

‘Can I come to the station?’ he asks quietly. His voice cracks after almost every word, and he chews the inside of his cheek, trying to calm the panic spreading out from his fingertips.

 _‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, son,’_ John replies. _‘We could be moving Amy around today for questioning and I don’t…’_ he pauses, heaves a huge breath. _‘I don’t want you anywhere near her. It’s not safe.’_

‘That’s alright, dad,’ Stiles says, even thought it’s not. ‘I understand.’

 _‘You’ll be alright, Stiles,’_ his voice quivers. _‘I promise.’_

‘I know. Love you, dad.’

_‘Love you too, son.’_

 

Stiles puts the phone down, rubs his forehead slowly. His ears are ringing, pressure building behind his eyes, like his head’s being squeezed from all sides. He walks over to the sink, fills a glass of water and downs it in one, hoping that’ll make a difference to his headache. Then he grabs his keys and leaves, not wanting to stay a minute longer trapped in the house. Because no matter how much he wants what his dad said to be true, he just doesn’t know if it’s possible. And the thought scares him more than any threats ever could.

*

He finds it a little surprising when he pulls up at the coffee shop twenty minutes later.

In retrospect, it’s the one place he should probably want to avoid. But there’s something about the familiar smell of vanilla and the comfortable warmth of the place that makes him feel safe, hidden away. It reminds him of his mom’s old candles she used to burn in the morning while she drank her coffee, and how he used to sit next to them, watching the flames melt the wax into liquid. 

He closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, he could be back there with her, waiting for her arms to lift him up and carry him to the living room. If he concentrates hard enough, it’s almost like she never left.

 

He opens his eyes and shakes his head. He’s come here to get _away_ from his problems, not think about them even more.

 

Glancing nervously at the menu, he approaches the counter, fingers tapping mindlessly against the cold plastic. Normally, he would just get coffee and be done with it. There’s too much choice to faff around trying to work out what he likes. But considering the last few days, Stiles reckons caffeine isn’t a good idea. 

‘Hi!’

A figure jumps up from behind the counter, so fast Stiles actually yelps in surprise. His heart pounding, he clutches his chest and bends over, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He goes for laughing.

‘Jesus Christ, man,’ he says, slowly straightening up. ‘Give a guy some warning.’

‘Sorry,’ the barista says, leaning across the counter to extend a hand. ‘I’ve had _way_ to much coffee. Up all night playing GTA. I’m addicted. You’re Stiles right?’

‘The one and only,’ he laughs shaking the hand.

‘I’m Scott,’ he replies, letting go and draping himself across the counter. ‘You looking for Derek?’

Stiles tilts his head curiously at him, but then shrugs and goes back to tapping the counter. ‘No, actually,’ he mutters, eyes darting from Scott to the menu. ‘I just needed to clear my head.’

Scott grins at him, winks and grabs a cup. ‘Well you’ve come to the right place. What can I get you? Hazelnut latte?’

Stiles sighs as he remembers the coffee, how good it was. But just the thought makes his heart skip a beat, and he’d really rather not have a panic attack in the middle of a coffee shop. Not again, anyway.

‘Err, actually, I was gonna avoid caffeine today. But thanks, anyway.’

‘That’s cool, man,’ Scott smiles, grabbing one of the plastic cups. ‘We’ve got loads of other stuff. What kind of thing do you like?’

‘Well I’d like to say something tall and fruity,’ Stiles laughs, ‘but I reckon that might take the little masculinity I still have, so…’

 

Scott stares at him strangely for a minute, kind of fondly, like he’s known Stiles for years and understands how ridiculously hard it is for his brain to function normally. Stiles just stares back, wide eyed. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Scott smiles, shaking his head. ‘You just remind me of someone, that’s all.’

‘Someone good, I hope.’

Scott winks. ‘The best.’

 

They grin goofily at each other for a few seconds, before Scott seems to remember that he’s supposed to be making drinks. He grabs a pen from the side, writes ' _Stiles’_ on it in little disjointed letters and puts it down on the side. Stiles groans.

‘Dude, I don’t know. You choose. I can’t even pick out what cereal to eat for breakfast.’

Scott’s face lights up, and Stiles can practically _see_ his brain working behind his eyes. He bounds over to the syrups and starts making something that looks suspiciously like vanilla milkshake. When it’s done, Scott all but throws it across the counter, chin resting on the backs of his hands as he waits for Stiles to try it.

He takes a sip, and _holy fuck_ , this guy knows his way round a frappuccino. He looks up, wide eyed at Scott, who just nods knowingly. 

‘Good, right?’

‘Good?’ Stiles says incredulously. ‘It’s freaking _awesome_.’

Scott winks and laughs. ‘That’s what they all say.’

 

Stiles pulls his wallet out the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out some notes. ‘How much do I owe you?’

Scott waves him away, shaking his head. ‘Nah, dude, it’s on the house. Friends and family discount.’

‘But you just met me five minutes ago.’

Scott rolls his eyes, sighing like Stiles just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. ‘You’re friends with Derek, Derek’s friends with me, blah blah blah. There, see, _friend.’_

Stiles shoves three dollars into the tip jar anyway, ignores Scott’s protests. Because contrary to popular belief, he wasn't raised a complete douchebag.

‘As a _friend,’_ Stiles says, emphasising the last word, ‘I’m giving you a tip. That way you don’t feel bad, I don’t feel bad, and a puppy doesn’t have to get upset.’

He nods at the tip jar that has, ‘ _Leave a tip, or puppy cries,’_ written across it with a little picture of a crying puppy underneath. 

‘The picture’s a nice touch.’

‘Thanks,’ Scott beams, bending over the counter to look. ‘I drew it myself. It gets quiet in here around five.’

‘You draw much?’ Stiles asks, examining the detail on the puppy’s tail. 

‘Bits and bobs,’ Scott says, flushing. ‘It’s mostly just for fun.’

Stiles sips his drink and hitches his bag more comfortably on his shoulder. The bell on top of the door tinkles softly, and Stiles steps to the side, raising a hand to Scott. 

‘It’s awesome, dude. You should do it more often.’ He nods over to the seats and turns to go. ‘See you around, yeah?’

‘See ya, buddy!’

 

Stiles strolls over to a table in the corner, relatively removed from the rest of the cafe. He feels weird, all light and tingly, like he could run a marathon or climb a mountain. His cheeks don’t seem to want to stop smiling, and there’s this kind of warmth in his chest he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s weird considering less than an hour ago, he felt like crying.

Stiles decides he’s coming back here every day if the feeling stays. Because feeling like this, like he could take on the world, it’s just about the best thing ever.

 

**Derek**

‘Another arson? Seriously?’

Erica slides out the car, Boyd following closely behind. She walks over to Derek, who’s still taking witness statements. 

‘I know,’ he says, closing his notebook. ‘We’re just lucky it’s a small one. If It had been anything bigger, it probably would’ve wiped out those houses over there.’

He points to the row of houses just south of the abandoned parking lot with his pen, indicating the rows of very big, very flammable trees surrounding them. 

‘So what’s the deal?’ Erica asks, pushing past him to get a look at the damage. She stops when she sees the burnt out toy car, still smouldering from the fire. She turns back to Derek, confused. ‘A toy car? Why would someone burn that?’

‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ Derek sighs, shoving the pen into his back pocket. ‘Honestly, Erica, it’s like you’re new here.’

‘Shut up, Derek. You know what I mean.’

 

Derek sighs, blowing the air out for as long as possible before he has to breathe again. He’s stalling, because he has no idea how to answer her question. He has no idea why someone would set fire to a toy car. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t really want to know. 

The flashbacks had started as soon as he arrived on the scene, bursting across his memory like ripples on water. At first it was little things, the feeling on his feet dragging over grass, glimpses of his own toy car he used to play in. Then they got more intense. Now all he can hear when he sees the burnt out shell is screaming, and crying, and death. And it’s making things difficult to deal with. 

 

‘Yo, Derek, you with me?’ 

Erica snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he blinks rapidly, hoping he hadn’t looked too spaced out.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, shaking his head. ‘What were you saying?’

Erica sighs. ‘I was _asking_ if you were alright. But judging by the shade of green your face is currently rocking, I’d say that my question is pretty much answered.’ 

‘I’m fine,’ Derek says, walking over to the evidence bins. Erica follows, leaving Boyd to talk with the rest of the witnesses. 

‘Can you at least _pretend_ not to bullshit me. Just this once?’ she says, grabbing the other side of the bin and dragging it away. 

‘I am _not_ bullshitting you,’ Derek growls, dragging the bin back. ‘I said I’m fine, Erica. It means I’m fine.’

Erica moves round so she’s close, almost touching him. Derek immediately tries to increase the distance. 

‘Even if I _couldn’t_ hear your heartbeat,’ she says, her voice dangerous, ‘which I can, I’d _still_ know you’re lying to me.’

She leans in a pokes a finger into his chest. It’s a mark of how close they are that Derek doesn’t bite her hand off. 

‘You might be lying to yourself, Derek, but you sure as fuck aren’t lying to me.’ 

They lock eyes for a moment before she ads, a little softer, ‘So tell me, Derek. What’s going on?’

 

‘Nothing,’ he finally sighs, rubbing his forehead. ‘I’m just stressed out about the Stilinski case, that’s all.’

It’s a half-truth, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to tell Erica about what’s _really_ bothering him. He’s not going to tell anyone about that. 

She seems to have fallen for it though, because her expression softens immediately.

‘It’s okay, Der-bear,’ she says, rubbing his back gently. ‘We’re all stressed it. It’s the biggest case of the year.’

‘I just want everything to be better, you know?’

He looks down at the ground, hating how small his voice is, hates that she can’t know exactly how deep his words should cut. He hates it all, but he still can’t change any of it. 

Erica smiles and punches him softly in the arm. ‘It will. I know it will.’

She pats his cheek affectionately after that, hand lingering on his cheek before moving away and saying loudly, ‘Now go home. You’re making me tired just looking at you.’

 

**Stiles**

‘Dude, you should probably take a break. You’re going cross-eyed.’  
 ****

Scott plops down into the seat opposite Stiles, sliding a tray into the space Sties’ laptop had just vacated. 

‘Sorry,’ Stiles mumbles, rubbing his eyes. ‘Got a bit carried away.’

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Because sometimes when he’s writing, he gets so lost in himself that he forgets he has a life outside the characters; that things happen, and people move without his conscious thought. Sometimes he gets so carried away, he forgets what it’s like to be him.

And then he remembers. And it sucks. 

 

‘You okay, man?’ Scott asks, eyes narrowing at the look on his face. ‘You’re looking a little green.’

‘Nah, I’m fine,’ Stiles says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Just tired. Didn’t sleep.’

He chances a look up. Scott’s staring at him like he knows he’s not telling the whole truth. It’s the same look Isaac used to give him whenever he went to the hospital. It’s the same look Derek gave him last night. He doesn’t know why, but it makes him feel guilty. 

 

‘Good thing I brought snacks then,’ Scott smiles extra wide, points at the tray. ‘Looks like you need them.’

He pushes a drink and a brownie across the table towards Stiles, nursing his own cup of coffee in his hands. 

‘You mind if I stay a minute? Breaks are boring when you’re lonely.’

‘Course not,’ Stiles smiles, sipping the drink. It tastes like lime and little of peppermint, the slight hint of it settling on his tongue.

‘Is that-?’

‘Mojito,’ Scott winks over his coffee cup. ‘Figured if you can’t drink yet, you might at least pretend to.’

Stiles laughs. ‘I knew there’s a reason I liked you.’

‘But you only met me five minutes ago,’ he mimics, rolling his eyes. 

‘Yeah, and it’s been the best five minutes of my life, okay?’

Scott laughs, eat half a brownie. ‘Knew it.’

 

They sit and talk for what feels like hours, about high school, friends, college. It’s nice. Stiles hasn’t spoken to anyone about college since he’s come home, and even though most of it is just Amy, there’s a lot of it he enjoyed. He loved running cross country and his writing class and his professors. He even loved his friends. But they’re gone now. Amy made sure of that. 

 

‘So you played lacrosse?’ Stiles asks, slurping the remains of his drink. 

Scott nods, ‘First line, buddy.’

‘Impressive,’ he nods back, leaning back in his chair. ‘I used to play a bit back in high school, but I was mostly on the bench.’

Scott shrugs. ’That’s still good. Better than being on the swim team.’

‘ _Anything’s_ better than being on the swim team,’ Stiles corrects him. He never understood why anybody would find the idea of voluntarily propelling their body through a pool of freezing water fun. To him it just seems gross. 

   

‘That’s ‘cause your swim team sucks.’

For the second time, Stiles jolts back, tries to turn in his chair at the same time. He catches Scott’s leg as he falls, pulling them both to the floor in a heap. 

‘Fuck, I’m sorry,’ he apologises, heaving himself to his feet. ‘I’m still a little jumpy.’

‘No, it’s my fault,’ Rachel winces, helping Scott up. ‘I shouldn’t have snuck up on you. Dick move, sorry.’

Scott laughs, punches her softly on the arm, ‘Nah, it’s good. You’ve always been creepily quiet.’

   

‘So, what were you guys talking about?’ Rachel asks, slipping into the chair next to Scott. 

‘High School.’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Eww, why?’

Scott shrugs. ‘Why not?’

Rachel laughs, running a hand through her hair. Stiles wonders how she keeps it so perfect. It’s always shiny, even when there’s no direct light source. It reminds him of his mother’s hair, the way he used to cling to it when she picked him up. He smiles. She would have liked Rachel.

  

‘Why don’t we talk about something else, then?’ she says, settling down properly.

‘Quantum Physics?’ Stiles smirks. ‘I’ve got a book right here-‘

Scott gasps. ‘Gross, man. And here I thought you were cool.’

He pushes his chair back, nuzzles himself into Rachel’s lap. Stiles doesn’t say anything about it.     

 

‘You’re kidding me,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Einstein’s theory of relativity is totally cool.’

‘I thought you studied English,’ Scott says, scrunching his face up in disgust. Stiles notices he doesn’t move away from Rachel.

‘Yeah,’ he says, shrugging. ‘A guy can read.’

‘Go for it, dude. Rather you than me.’

 

Rachel smiles playfully at him, cards a hard through his hair. Scott leans into her touch, yawns widely.

‘Scott, how did you pass your degree again?’ 

‘By being awesome,’ he mumbles dozily. Stiles laughs.

Stiles snorts. ’Wish I’d thought of that.’

Scott grins lazily, then winks at him. ‘Too busy reading.’

 

Stiles throws brownie crumbs at his head. 

 

‘Honestly,’ Rachel sighs, flicking stray brownie off her shirt, ‘it’s like hanging out with Ben.’

‘Ben’s cool though,’ Scott sniggers, brushing himself down. ‘ _And_ he loves making me food.’

‘Sounds like a keeper,’ Stiles jokes back, ignoring the little pull in the pit of his stomach that tells him to get closer, to _be_ closer to them. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he’s not one hundred per cent sure he knows how to deal with it. He just knows that when he watches Scott lean his head on Rachel’s shoulder, he wants to as well. And that’s definitely not something he’s ever admitted wanting before. 

 

‘Speaking of Ben,’ Rachel segues, resting her arm around Scott’s shoulder. ‘He’s with my parents tonight. You guys should come over for dinner.’

‘Oh, I really-‘

‘Dude, just go with it,’ Scott sighs happily, ‘she’ll drag you along anyway. Plus, she’s kick ass at lasagne, so you’ll actually be missing out if you don’t go.’

    
Stiles looks anxiously between the pair of them, his mind working a thousand times a second. Because he knows he should say no, just like he always does, just like Amy taught him. But at the same time, the little pull in his stomach’s getting harder to ignore, and it’s telling him that he really, _really_ wants to go. For a second, he’s not sure what’ll win, conditioning or instinct, and it scares the hell out of him. 

   

But then Rachel leans across the table and puts her hand over his, smiles softly at him, and suddenly, the decision doesn’t seem so hard.

‘Please, Stiles,’ she says. ‘It won’t be the same without you.’

Although every instinct, every fibre of his being says to do the opposite, for the first time, Stiles doesn’t feel controlled by it, and it gives him the courage to nod and say, ‘Alright then. I’d love to.’

 

 

**Derek**

Derek doesn’t go home, much to Erica’s annoyance. He stays and helps with the clean up, gets stared on the report, which he then hands over to an intern to sort out, because by that point his head’s banging and all he wants is to curl up on the sofa and go to sleep.  
 ****

Five minutes before his shift ends, he gets a text from Rachel, telling him the pack’s coming over for dinner. 

 _Even Stiles?_ he texts back, walking over to Erica and Boyd. 

 _Obviously_ she replies. Derek doesn’t want to admit the jolt in his stomach when he reads it. 

 

‘Dinner at my place tonight,’ Derek says when he reaches them, noticing the little smile that tugs at Erica’s lip.

‘Does that mean I’m finally going to meet this Stiles kid everyone’s talking about?

Derek rolls his eyes. ‘Be nice. We’d quite like to keep him around.’

‘How dare you,’ she laughs, shoving him against the car. ‘I’m _very_ nice. Tell him, Boyd.’

‘You’re the best,’ Boyd replies, kissing her softly on the cheek. Erica blushes pink before she continues. 

‘Did you hear that, Derek? I’m _the best_.’ 

Derek laughs. ‘Just get in the car.’

 

‘You know, that’s the third fire we’ve seen this week,’ Erica says, as the drive away from the crime scene. ‘Should we be worried about that?’

‘Probably.’

 

She rolls her eyes at him and pulls down the sun visor, checking her face in the mirror. 

‘Oh, Derek,’ she says, snapping the mirror back in place. ‘Always one with words.’

‘Ask a stupid question,’ Derek replies, rounding a corner a little too viscously. Erica nearly lands on top of him.

‘Jesus, Derek. I know you’re hot, but I really don’t want to get that familiar with your crotch. It’s just not right.’

Boyd snorts, kicks his chair. ‘Yeah, Derek. I’m not into sharing.’

 

Derek drives a little slower the rest of the way.

 

*

 

‘And then- he- he got a whole months supply, and c-carried it all t-the way back to th-the store…’

 

Derek slams the door behind him, not entirely happy about the way Erica’s face lights up when she catches what Scott’s talking about.

‘Is this the coffee story?’ she says gleefully, flopping down next to Scott, who’s laughing so hard, it looks painful. He curls into a ball on the rug, bringing his knees up to his chest as he rocks, backwards and forwards, wheezing as he tries to suck in air.

   

‘Yeah- I was just t-telling Stiles about it,’ he coughs. Erica grins.

‘Did you tell him about the part where he cried? Because that’s my favourite.’

‘Shut up, Erica,’ Derek growls. ‘I did not cry.’

‘Did to,’ she says, starting to laugh herself. ‘You said it was the worst day of your life. You started crying in the shop. Scott had to take you out back.’

‘His face when I told him it was a joke,’ Scott says, rubbing his chest. ‘It was _perfect.’_

They all erupt into fresh fits of laughter, leaving Derek to sit and sulk. Because _of course_ they’d tell this story, of all things.

 

‘Ohmygod, stop, stop,’ Stiles splutters from the couch, face half buried in the cushions. ‘I’m g-gonna puke.’

Scott rolls onto his side, clutches his stomach. ‘Dude, me too.’

‘Scott, I swear to God, if you throw up on my rug, you’ll be scrubbing every inch of this apartment with a toothbrush.’

There’s no heat behind the threat, but Derek goes to get a bucket anyway, already painfully familiar with Scott and his ridiculous stomach. Erica just rolls her eyes and mutters, ‘ _Boys_.’

 

‘No, D-Derek, it’s ok,’ Scott chokes. ‘I’m ok, sorry.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Rachel sniffs, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘That story gets me every time.’

‘And I hate all three of you,’ Derek huffs. He stalks to the sofa, picks Stiles up by the armpits, who squeaks in protest, wriggling until Derek plops him down on the cushions beside him.

‘Dude,’ he breaths, still recovering. ‘Manhandling not good.’

‘Shhh,’ Derek hushes him, settling back into the couch. ‘Quiet time now.’

 

‘Aww, come on, Der-Bear,’ Erica says, moving in to sit by Derek’s feet. ‘We’re sorry. It’s not our fault you’re incredibly gullible.’

‘Coffee isn’t a joke, Erica.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘You’re such a drama queen.’

‘I’d been awake for thirty-two hours. It was cry or kill Scott.’

Scott yelps, but Erica just tickles his feet, leans up to pout at him. ‘Okay, fair point. We’ll let it go.’

‘Good,’ Derek huffs, folding his arms. ‘Now can we just sit and watch the film please?’

‘Of course, sweetie,’ Rachel says, tucking her feet up onto the couch, rubbing Derek’s arm. ‘We’ll be quiet now.’

 

They settle down into silence, watch the film Scott found on Netflix. For a minute, it’s nice, peaceful. But it typical Beacon Hills fashion, it doesn’t last long.

‘When are we getting food?’ Scott moans eventually. ‘I’m _starving._ ’

‘Isaac’s bringing something after work,’ Rachel mutters.

Scott and Erica and Boyd all groan. 

‘I guess I’ll starve then,’ Scott says. ‘It’ll be next week before he shows up.’

‘He’s not that bad,’ Rachel says. ‘He is a doctor. You know, saving lives and all.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’

Rachel laughs. ‘Don’t worry, Scotty. You can have first dibs when he gets here.’

‘Yeah,’ Erica says. ‘Gotta build up your strength for the next time you run out of coffee. I’m not sure you’ll survive round two.’

   

Scott and Erica end up having a grappling match on the rug. Derek lets them get on with it. It’s not like they’ll hurt themselves. And anyway, he’s comfortable, and the smell of burning in his nostrils has been replaced with the smell of pack, the smell of home. And right now, that’s quite literally the best thing in the world.

 

*

 

‘I bring sustenance!’ Isaac slams the door shut with his foot, throws his backpack to the floor, five pizza boxes balanced in his hands. 

Derek turns his neck idly, not ready to move from his position on the couch, and grins at him, raising a hand in welcome. 

‘’Bout time,’ he says, eyeing the pizza. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Shut up, Sourpatch,’ he grumbles, kicking his shoes off. ‘I got held up at work, okay? It was urgent.’

‘More urgent than pizza?’ Erica says, eyes still glued to the screen.

‘Nothing’s more important than pizza,’ Boyd corrects, his hands still trailing through her hair. 

‘Truth,’ Scott adds, and they high five. 

 

Isaac huffs and drops the pizza boxes in his lap. Scott yelps as he sits up.

‘Dude!’

‘I’ll let the lady with a busted hip know how concerned you are,’ Isaac quips. ‘What did you expect me to say? ‘Sorry Mrs Johnson, I can’t help with your hip, I’ve got a bunch of selfish assholes to feed. Have fun trying to walk.’’

He raises his eyebrows at all of them, his expression dark. Derek ruffles his hair.

‘Come on, Isaac. You know we didn’t mean it like that.’

‘I know,’ he says, leaning into the touch. ‘I just _hate_ being late for these. I never get a good spot.’

‘You can sit here,’ Stiles says, getting up to move. But it’s like he’s thrown a hornets nest into a box of puppies. As soon as his foot leaves the couch, Scott whines, his eyes wide, Erica shivers involuntarily. Even Boyd scowls like it’s a terrible idea. Derek does nothing but ignore the clawing ache in his stomach brought on by the absence of Stiles’ shoulder against his ribs. 

 

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Isaac says, moving over to sit by Rachel’s feet. ‘You look comfy there.’

‘It’s cause he’s next to Derek,’ Scott says. ‘He’s like a big, cuddly teddy bear.’

‘Are you serious?’ Derek sighs, shaking his head. ‘A _teddy bear?’_ Can I be something a little less emasculating please?’

Rachel laughs. ‘You’re manly enough thanks. And anyway,’ she adds, ‘I like your cuddles.’

‘Me too,’ Erica sighs, leaning a little heavier against his legs. 

‘Me three,’ Scott joins in.

‘Are you guys done?’ Derek says, watching as every single one of them giggles. Except Stiles. He just shifts slightly in the chair, resuming his position against Derek’s side. 

‘I was going to say ‘me four,’ but whatever.’

‘Yours is allowed,’ Derek says, pulling him in closer. Scott looks up and points at him, affronted.

‘Favouritism!’ he bellows, yelping as Derek kicks him softly in the stomach.

‘His dad’s my boss,’ he says, winking at Stiles. ‘He’s favourite by default.’

‘Not to mention he’s cuter than you,’ Erica says, laughing as Scott barrels into her side. They roll around for a second before Erica pins his wrists to the floor, smirking down at him. 

‘Hey, no fair,’ Scott breaths. ‘You cheated.’

‘How? By tickling you?’

Scott huffs. ‘You _know_ how sensitive my stomach is.’

Erica grins. ‘Yeah, which is why it’s so fun to do this.’

 

She lets go of his writs and dives foreword, tickles his stomach relentlessly until he’s purple in the face and Derek decides it’s time to intervene.

‘Alright, Erica, that’s enough.’

‘But I was having fun,’ she pouts, finally letting go.

‘I’m so glad,’ Scott wheezes, lying still. ‘I’m so happy you enjoyed yourself. You’ve made my evening.’

‘No problem, Scotty,’ she snorts. ‘You know I love to make you smile.’

 

After that, Scott actually _does_ puke, leaving Isaac to trudge into the bathroom to see if he’s alright. Derek should feel for him, but he kind of asked for it when he became a doctor. Any and all sickness goes directly to him now. 

When he comes back, they’re all digging into the pizza. It takes less than ten minutes to eat all five, all of them so hungry, they don’t even bother to get plates. They just sit in silence and watch the film Erica put on, throwing the boxes by the door once they're done.

 

‘Oh my god,’ Isaac sighs a few minutes later. ‘I think I’m actually in a pizza coma.’

‘Me too,’ Scott moans, rubbing his belly. Stiles chuckles, and Derek looks down to see his eyes droop sleepily again, his face a picture of quiet contentment. Derek snakes his arm around him, tugs until his head’s resting in the crook of his arm.

‘Isaac, grab the blankets from the spare room,’ he says, noticing how the rest of the pack have gone quiet. 

Isaac slips away, and then returns with three huge blankets, all varying shades of brown and beige. He throws one to Erica and Boyd, who curl up together on the floor. He passes another one to Scott, and he scoots over to snuggle next to Derek, who pulls them both in close until they’re comfy. Then he takes the third one over to the armchair where he and Rachel were curled up and throws a blanket over the pair of them, pulling it up until just their heads are visible. 

 

The room goes quiet as they each shut their eyes, one by one, drifting off at various points throughout the film. It’s only when Scott starts drooling on his arm, and Stiles sighs sleepily against his chest that he turns it off, letting himself get drowsy before finally shutting his eyes, and eventually, he falls asleep.


	7. I Wish She Would Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s down the stairs and in his Jeep before Derek can say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is where things get a bit more exciting- I hope. Basically, I had an idea for this chapter, and it turned out super long, so I've split it. This is part one, if you will. Part two will be coming in the next few days :D
> 
> Please let me know of any mistakes, and as always, let me know what you think in the comments- I love every single one of them :*
> 
> Enjoy!

**Stiles**

‘Shit, dude, I’m sorry.’

Stiles jolts awake, stares horrified at the wet mark on Derek’s shirt. Trust him to fucking _drool_ in his sleep. Really fucking attractive.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Derek says, yawning. ‘Scott bit me three times last night. I think I can handle a little drool.’

‘I bit you?’ Scott frowns, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

‘Must have been dreaming about that pizza,’ Erica mutters, not bothering to open her eyes.

Scott shakes his head. ‘I was dreaming about Allison.’

‘Who’s Allison?’ Stiles asks, stretching his arms over his head.

Erica laughs. ‘His girlfriend.’

Stiles frowns. 'Why would you want to bite your girlfriend?’

 

The room goes quiet for a minute, all of them glancing anxiously at each other. Stiles frowns, convinced he’s said something wrong, but then Isaac hums contently and turns over, half asleep.

‘She must be tasty.’

Scott throws a pillow at his face.

*

 

‘I should probably head home,’ Stiles says after they’ve eaten breakfast. ‘My dad’ll be worrying.’

‘I’ll drive you,’ Derek says, downing the last of his coffee, putting the mug in the sink.

Stiles shakes his head. ‘No, honestly, it’s fine. Gotta get my exercise in somehow.’

‘Sorry, what?’ Erica says, emerging from the bathroom, rubbing her hair dry with a towel. ‘Exercise? You’re like a bean pole.’

‘Well I’d like to stay that way,’ Stiles smirks, rolling his eyes at her. ‘And anyway, Derek threatened to take me running, so I’ve got to do some kind of training, or he’ll end up carrying me home.’

 

Scott says something under his breath to Isaac, but Stiles doesn’t catch it. It must have been a joke about Derek though, because Isaac laughs, and Derek shoots them a look that’s a mixture between, _‘are-you-kidding-me?’_ and _‘I’m-going-to-kill-you.’_

It’s scary enough that neither of them say another word until Rachel comes back from the kitchen, a piece of paper in her hands.

‘You just got a call from Jackson,’ she says, shoving the paper in his hands. ‘There’s been another robbery at the gas station down town. Sheriff says you need to investigate.’

‘Dammit,’ Erica says, pouting hard. ‘I was supposed to clean my apartment today. It’s getting kinda gross.’

‘I’ll help you clean it later,’ Boyd replies, suddenly at her hip, kissing her cheek.

Erica blushes and mutters, ‘Thanks, babe.’

 

Derek shakes his head at them, grabs his spare uniform from the laundry pile. ‘Sorry, Stiles. I can give you a ride to the station if you want? I’ve got to drag those two morons there anyway.’

He nods towards Erica and Boyd, the pair of them giggling into ear other’s ears. Derek wrinkles his nose at them.

Stiles laughs, but shakes his head anyway, tearing his eyes away from them. ‘Seriously, it’s fine, Derek. It’s not that far.’

‘If you’re sure,’ he shrugs, pulling on his shirt.

Stiles stares pointedly at the opposite wall. ‘One hundred per cent.’

 

‘Right then,’ Scott chimes in. ‘I’m off. Coffee waits for no man.’

He leans over to clap Stiles on the back, grins at him. ‘Nice to see you, dude.’

‘Yeah, you too,’ Stiles smiles back. ‘I’ve had fun.’

‘You should come by the shop more often. These guys never bother.’

He gestures around at them, shakes his head, but Derek’s too quick. Before Scott can do anything, Derek grabs the back of his shirt and chucks him on the couch, laughs as he rolls straight off it onto the floor with a soft, ‘ _oof_.’

‘That,’ Derek says, still laughing. ‘Is for not appreciating the five mile run I took for your coffee.’

‘My bad,’ Scott winces as he drags himself up from the floor. He walks over and kicks at Derek’s ankles, like a little kid trying to piss off their parent.

Derek ruffles his hair affectionately, lifts him up over his shoulder, shouting, ‘Last one to the car does the coffee run!’ before disappearing through the door, Scott screaming in protest as they race down the hall.

 

‘They’re going to kill themselves,’ Rachel sighs, picking up the breakfast things. She pauses just before the kitchen, turns back with a smile. ‘Thanks for coming, Stiles. We should do this more often.’

‘Yeah, definitely,’ Stiles grins after her as she disappears.

‘See you later, cutie,’ Erica says, pulling him into a hug. ‘I’m glad you’re as awesome as they said you were.’

Stiles blushes, heat creeping up the side of his neck. Because he was not expecting compliments, especially not from tall, pretty, blonde girls with guns strapped to their hip. Maybe in his dreams, yes, but reality? Definitely not.

‘I’m not sure awesome’s the right word,’ he mutters bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck.

Erica laughs. ‘Of course it is, numb nuts. Scott loves you. Maybe even more than Allison.’

Isaac tuts from the couch, finishes tying his laces. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Erica. Scott can have sex with Allison.’

‘And on that note,’ Stiles shouts over him, ‘I’m going to go. Have fun err… doing whatever it is you guys do…’

He gives them a quick wave and then bolts from the room, grabbing his bag on the way out.

 

‘You’d love to have sex with Scott!’ Erica yells after him. ‘Don’t deny yourself!’

‘Shut up, Erica.’ he yells back, throwing an crumbled up twinkie wrapper at her head. ‘He’s not my type.’

‘So what is your type?’ She grins, laughing at him as she throws the wrapper back. ‘Tall, dark and handsome?’

Stiles can feel the heat creep up his neck when he replies, ‘Something like that.’

 

* 

A lot of things happen while he walks, and all of them happen in a very short amount of time. 

 

When Stiles leaves the apartment, he’s happy, still buzzing from his banter with Erica, still warm from the couch he slept on. It’s nice, comforting. It reminds him of when he used to fall asleep on the couch at home.  Those were the times his dad could still pick him up, still carry him to bed and tuck him in. Those were the days Stiles felt safe, protected, happy. Last night, surrounded by everyone, by Derek and Scott and Rachel, that was the closest he’s come to feeling like that again. 

 But he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the comfort of family. Because what can he give them? 

He’s not like Scott, who can make anyone smile just by _being_ there. He’s not like Erica, quick witted and charming. He’s not even like Isaac, who’s sweet and sensitive when he needs to be. He’s not like them. He’s a mess; broken, useless, a waste of space. They don’t need him, they’ll never need him. Maybe it’d be better if he just disappeared. Maybe he should.

 

By the time Stiles reaches his bedroom, he feels heavy, tired, like all the energy’s been drained out of him. He barely makes it to his room before he collapses on his bed, face buried in the sheets, eyes shut as he lets the heaviness take over. 

He digs his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it. He knows it’s a bad idea, but he doesn’t care. He has to feel something normal, something he can understand, not this terrible mix of emotions that’s slowly eating him alive. 

Clicking through his pictures, he finds the album of them; Amy’s face smiling back at him from a hundred different angles, face covered in makeup because she never let a camera near her without it. 

Stiles never understood why she took so many pictures of herself on his phone. He’s always assumed she just didn’t want to fill up her own memory card, but now he thinks about it, it’s probably her way of marking him, making sure people knew that he was hers, that he _belonged_ to her. He knows it’s sick that he feels comforted by that. But jealousy’s better than disinterest, and Stiles’ has never had much choice in who he’s allowed to love. 

 

And suddenly there’s that pain again, that dragging, splitting pain through his chest that makes him want to tear his own heart out. He needs to be with Amy. That’s where he belongs. And right now she’s sitting behind bars, because of him, because he got scared. Because he’s weak.

Stiles finds their old messages, scans though them before typing _I’m sorry_ under his last reply. His fingers hover over the send button, trembling above the screen for a second, stuck between giving up and letting go. 

But he can’t do it, so he throws his phone across the room and lets his hand fall back to the bed, lifeless and heavy against the mattress. Because this isn’t what he wants. None of this is what he wants. And it’s driving him insane. 

 

That’s when he decides it’s too much, too far. So he closes his eyes, allows the darkness calm his racing heart, and lets himself feel alone for the first time since she left him.

 

**Derek**

 ‘What do you mean he won’t press charges!?’

Derek slams his hands against the desk, sending a stapler, a pack of paperclips and an empty mug crashing to the ground. The mug splinters into three pieces as it hits the floor, the broken pieces flying in all directions. Derek kind of knows how it feels. 

‘I don’t know what happened,’ John says, rubbing his forehead. ‘Things were going so well. He was opening up… I… I just don’t understand.’

‘Yeah, well that makes two of us,’ Derek growls. ‘He was fine when he left this morning.’

 John shakes his head, gives Derek a searching look. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Derek. Who knows what goes on in that boy’s head.’

‘Has anything like this happened before?’ Derek asks, sinking heavily into his chair. ‘Does he get mood swings, or… anything?’

John shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. ‘He had pretty bad anxiety as a kid, but that was mostly after his mother died. They were really close.’ 

 

‘I just don’t get it,’ Derek carries on, leaning towards John as though being close to him made him closer to Stiles. ‘He was _fine_.’ 

He closes his eyes, drops his head into his hands. He wants to explain that Stiles really _was_ alright this morning, that his scent was nothing but happy when he woke up, curled into Derek’s side like he _belonged_ there, like it was the only thing he wanted. He wants to tell John how amazing last night had been, how much the pack loves him. But he can’t, so he just groans softly into his hands, lets the silence tell the rest of the story. 

 

‘What can I say, Derek. He’s a good actor. Always has been.’

Derek suppresses a moan of irritation. ‘I know, but he just…’

He pauses, not able to find the right words. There _has_ to be something going on; something Derek doesn’t know about. Because whatever John might believe, Stiles had been _happy_ last night, and he’s got at least five other people who can say the same thing.

   

John sighs, walks over to pat Derek gently on the shoulder. 

‘You can’t take it to heart, Derek. This is just how Stiles is. He can’t help that.’

‘Can I talk to him?’ Derek asks, scrubbing a hand down his face. ‘Get him to change his mind?’

‘You can try,’ John says, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But I couldn’t get a word out of him when I went home. You’ll be wasting your breath.’

Derek looks up determinedly, squares his shoulders like it’s his personal mission to make this ok, to make _Stiles_ ok. He stands up, walks round to the front of the desk and leans against John’s desk. ‘Let me talk to him.’

 

For a moment, Derek thinks John’s going to say no. His eyebrows are knitted together in their trademark _I’m-not-really-happy-about-this-but-I’ll-go-with-it-anyway_ kind of way. Derek knows when those eyebrows come out, things could either go really well, or horribly wrong. 

Lucky for Derek, today’s a good day.

‘Alright, Derek,’ John says after a while. ‘I trust you. Just make sure my son doesn’t do anything stupid.’

Derek lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he’s holding, and smiles greatly at John. ‘Thank you, sir.’ 

 

He gets up to leave, slides his phone into his back pocket, ready to face whatever knew challenge waits for him at the Stilinski house. 

Just as he reaches the door, John sits back in his chair and adds, ‘He’s in his room. The door’s open.’

Derek doesn’t need supernatural senses to know that’s a bad sign. 

 

**Stiles**

 He doesn’t know what time it is. He doesn’t really care. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to _feel_ anything. Because he can’t remember a time when things were as bad as this. 

 

Stiles buries his face into the sleeve of his shirt, closes his eyes against the fabric. If he concentrates hard enough, he can still smell Derek, smell the aftershave that bled through his shirt.  It brings back that pulling in the pit of his stomach, that desperate need to be close to Derek, his friends, his house. It’s confusing as hell, not only because Stiles _knows_ that he shouldn’t want that. He should want Amy, his girlfriend, the person who’s been with him for there years, not a guy he met a few days ago in a coffee shop.

That’s why this is all so confusing. Because he shouldn’t want to be around Derek as much as he does. He shouldn’t feel lost and empty without him. It’s not natural, not after a few days. He should want what’s familiar, natural, easy, but he doesn’t. He wants the complicated, the unknown, the new. And it’s completely fucking him up.

 

Stiles sighs. He should probably get up, shower, brush his teeth, but the thought of moving makes him want to cry. His limbs are way too heavy, like they’re made of solid lead, and there’s this deep emptiness in his chest that seems to be sucking away his ability to feel, to understand why this is happening to him. In some ways it’s nice, peaceful. But mostly, it just makes him want to die. 

So he closes his eyes, buries his face further into his sleeve. Because even if he’s empty right now, he can still pretend that he’s not. He can still pretend that he’s curled up on Derek’s couch, surrounded by steady breathing, Derek’s heart beating softly against his ear. 

 

**Derek**

 He finds the spare key almost instantly, hidden in the flowerpot outside the front door. He slides it into the lock, opens it gently, not wanting to scare Stiles. Because whatever’s going on, Derek needs him to be calm enough to talk, so he can understand. Then he can work on fixing the problem.

 

Derek takes the stairs three at a time, and once at the top, it doesn’t take long to find Stiles room. And what he sees is not good.

Stiles is lying on his bed, in the same clothes he wore yesterday, his head buried in his arm like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He hasn’t even taken his shoes off. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. If Derek couldn’t hear his heartbeat, he’d think he was dead. 

‘My dad sent you to spy on me?’

His voice is muffled and lifeless behind his shirt, and Derek’s not sure if he’s more surprised that he spoke first, or that he knew who it was without looking. 

Deciding it’s as good an invite as any, Derek walks into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, scanning it carefully. 

As bedrooms go, it’s pretty normal. A bed, a desk, excessive closet space. It reminds Derek of his old bedroom. The thought makes him feel sick. 

 

‘No actually,’ he replies casually. ‘I wanted to come.’

‘I know why you’re here.’

Derek laughs, but it’s humourless, more like a huff than anything. ‘Then you’ll know what I want.’

‘An apology?’

‘An explanation,’ Derek counters. ‘You owe me that much at least.’

‘I can’t.’

 

Stiles’ head doesn’t move from it’s position, but there’s a change in the way he’s lying. It’s not heavy anymore, it’s rigid, like every muscle in his body’s tensed, waiting for something. Derek stays still, listens as his heartbeat gets quicker, as his scent starts to change. 

‘You can’t give me an explanation, or you can’t press charges?’

There’s a beat of silence before Stiles mutters, ‘Both.’

   

Derek suppresses a groan, runs his hand through his hair. ‘Come on, Stiles. You can’t just leave me with that. You have to give me _something_.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Jesus Christ, Stiles, I’m _trying_ here. Let me help you.’

Stiles shuffles slightly, away from Derek, towards the wall. He turns his head the opposite way.

‘Derek, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’ Derek asks. ‘What’s stopping you, huh? Because I’d sure as hell like to know.’

He takes a deep breath, runs his hands over his eyes. ‘Please, Stiles. Let me… let me do _something_.’

 

‘I can’t, okay!’

 

Derek knows the moment Stiles loses it, can tell by the way his scent changes completely. As heavy as he looked before, that’s how alive he looks now, buzzing with adrenaline and power that Derek hasn’t seen before. 

Stiles springs up from the bed so fast, Derek has to swerve to avoid him as he barrels across the room, turning to stare Derek directly in the face. He looks angry, _furious_ , his whole body contorted in rage. But it’s his eyes that scare Derek the most. They don’t just look upset, they look _broken_ , like the lightbulb in them’s blown, leaving the broken glass shattered at his feet. 

 

‘Don’t you get it, Derek?’ he yells, spit flying from his mouth. ‘I can’t explain it to you! I can’t even explain it to myself! You think I wanted any of this? You think I actually wanted to be fucking torn to pieces? Well I didn’t, okay! I never wanted _any_ of this. Not the fucking statement, not the trial, not anything! Because she’s right, Derek. She’s always right. I don’t work on my own. I’m a useless piece of shit who can’t even hold down a fucking _girlfreind-!’_

He cuts himself off, drags his fingers through his hair, spins on the spot, like he’s searching for a way out. Derek moves to stand in front of the window. He’s had too much experience with people jumping out of them for him to be complacent. 

But Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. He’s to busy pacing the room, eyes manic, wild, inhumane, and Derek can fully appreciate how it must feel to see someone transform. Because watching this, watching someone _lose_ themselves in their own body, it’s fucking terrifying. 

 

‘Why do you let her do this to you, Stiles?’ he asks, his voice low. ‘Why do you let her control you? She nearly _killed_ you. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

Derek bites the inside of his lip, waits for Stiles to say something, _anything_ that he can use to help. But there’s something about the way he’s standing, the way he’s holding his body that’s all wrong. His shoulders are rounded, almost hunched, his arms hanging limply at his side, hands balled into fists. He looks so breakable, but so strong at the same time, like he’s stopping all the pieces falling apart. Derek can’t remember the last time he’s been lost for words, but Stiles’ face, right now, it leaves a lump in this throat so big, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to speak again.

 

That’s why it hurts so bad when he looks back, eyes completely dead, and says, ‘I wish she would have.’

  

He’s down the stairs and in his Jeep before Derek can say another word.

 


	8. Couldn't Be Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s with his pack in mind when he sighs and says, ‘Stiles, there’s something I want to show you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I a horrible person? I probably am, I'm sorry! But what can I say? I'm a sucker for emotional stuff. 
> 
> This is the second part of last chapter, so that's why it's a bit shorter than normal. Full length chapters coming back next time!
> 
> If you wanna discuss anything, pop over to my [Tumblr](http://sourwolfsam.tumblr.com) and talk to me! I promise I won't bite ;)
> 
> As always, if you enjoyed, leave a comment- I love and appreciate all of them, and I hope you like it! :*

**Stiles**

 When Stiles was five, his dad took him to his first crime scene. 

 

His mom was at work, and Stiles had been carted round town in the patrol car, big brown eyes peering through the window as his dad got the call. 

 

The incident was about three miles south of Stiles’ house, on a busy highway leading out of town.  Stiles remembers pulling up at the side of the road, remembers seeing a car on it’s side. There was glass and oil everywhere, people crying, blue flashing lights. Stiles didn’t need the mournful look on his John’s face to know that it was bad. 

That was the first time he’d seen his dad cry. 

 

After that, Stiles had seen hundreds of car accidents, from smashed tail-lights to fifteen car pile-ups. He even held someone’s hand whilst they were being cut out of a particularly nasty crash, one where every officer was needed for something. Julia, her name had been. Stiles had seen her, trapped under the car she’d been thrown from, her right leg crushed under a pile of broken metal. He’d held her hand as she cried, as she screamed for her husband.  

He’d always wondered what it would be like to be in the car when it crashed; whether he’d cry, or see a white light, or swear. He always wondered what it was like to be that afraid. 

 

And now it looks like he got his wish. 

 

 

**Derek**

 Fourteenth of February. Valentines Day. 

 Derek remembers arriving at the site of the crash, Still half dressed for dinner, his shirt smudged with dirt and oil, his suit jacket abandoned at the side of the road. 

 

They were driving to the restaurant when it happened. One minute, he’s driving at seventy, cruising on the highway, the next he’s slamming the brakes on so hard, it feels like his stomach’s falling out his ass. 

The three cars in front aren’t so lucky. The first flips, slides along the road on it’s roof before rolling three more times. The second slams into the first and sends it crashing into the third, where they eventually grind to a stop in the middle of the road. 

 

Five people died that night, mostly on impact. But there was one guy who was still alive when the police arrived, and Derek held his hand until the paramedics came.

Derek didn’t find out his name until three days later when he dropped flowers off at his mother’s door. 

David was a senior, class president, on the swim team, about to study at Harvard Medical School. His mom said he wanted to save people. All Derek could think about was how he couldn’t be saved.

 

 

**Stiles**

His head really, really hurts. Like someone’s slammed it against a wall.

Stiles lets out a hollow groan, tries to move, but none of his muscles cooperate. Everything hurts, everything’s numb, and nothing seems to be making much sense. 

He tries to move, but his seat belt’s trapping him in, holding him in place, securing him in his seat.     Through the distant fog slowly clouding his vision, he somehow comprehends that there’s glass in his lap, that something’s burning. He tries to focus, to understand what’s happening to him, but it’s all a jumble in his head; colours and faded lines that never connect. 

 

His eyes close as the pain in his head builds and stars dance across his eyes. He thinks he must be falling asleep, because his mind goes back to that accident with Julia, to the mangled wreck she was trapped under. 

Stiles wonders what it would be like to have someone holding his hand, telling him it’s alright, keeping him alive. 

He wonders what his dad will say when he finds him, whether he’ll cry like he did when he was five, like he did when his mom died. He wonders if he’ll ever get over it, if he’ll be able to go on alone. It’s not like Stiles has been a good son to him. He’s been the opposite really. 

 

And that’s what he thinks about as his mind slips into unconsciousness. He thinks about how he’ll never be able to apologise, never be able to see him again, and tell him all the things that he didn’t when he was with Amy. 

He’ll never be able to make up the lost time. And the thought of it fucking kills him. 

 

 

**Derek**

 

He still remembers the feeling he got when he saw the pile up on the highway. It was the swooping, emptying sensation in the pit of his stomach that made him want to scream and choke all at once. 

He remembers how scared he’d been.

This? This is way worse. 

 

Stiles’ Jeep is on it’s side, smoke pouring from the engine that’s still running. The windows are smashed, glass shining across the wet leaves, some puddled in the oil spilling from somewhere under the car. 

‘Stiles!’

His voice sounds like it’s been ripped out of him, cracking in all the wrong places as he barrels towards the Jeep, looking for anything, any sign that Stiles might be ok, might be alive. 

 

Panicking, he tries to look through the windshield, but it’s completely shattered, jagged cracks running across the surface, making it useless to see through. 

He drops to the ground, runs a hand through his hair, tries to slow down, think. He’s seen hundreds of car accidents, had on-hand experience at most. He knows what he’s doing. But he’s not used to knowing the person inside. 

 

He closes his eyes, tries to think logically. The first thing he needs to do is get to Stiles. Once he’s done that, he can start to sort out the rest. 

 

Working fast, Derek hauls himself up onto the side of the car not smashed on the ground, and crawls over to the window, being careful not to brush any glass into the interior. 

Once he’s firmly in place, he leans forward and looks through the empty hole where glass used to be. 

 

Stiles is unconscious, his head slumped against the mangled door next to him. 

Taking a deep breath, Derek lets his scent wash over him, fighting desperately with the smell of fuel and spilled oil. From what he can tell, Stiles isn’t seriously hurt. He’s bruised and battered, but there’s no broken bones, no blood, and that’s enough for Derek.

‘Stiles,’ he says softly, half his torso hanging into the Jeep. ‘Can you hear me?’

No response. 

‘Stiles?’ he tries again, lowering himself further inside. ‘Nod if you can hear me.’

 

He waits almost thirty seconds, but he doesn’t get anything. Stiles is definitely out of it.

Sighing, Derek pulls himself out, lands lightly on the oil-slicked ground. He knows what he has to do, knows how risky it is. But it’s the only hope he’s got. He can’t pull Stiles out through the passenger window; there’s too much glass, not enough room. 

There’s only one thing he can do now, and it’s probably going to cost him more than just an explanation. 

 

Bracing himself, he stoops down by the side of the Jeep that’s on the ground, tucks his fingers under the crack between the window and the roof. Then he pulls, using all the strength in his arms until it starts to move, slowly rising out of the ground inch by inch. 

Derek hears muffled gasping sobs from the inside, but by now, it’s too late to stop. So he keeps going, keeps pushing until the Jeep’s on all four wheels again. Then, he gets to work.  

 

**Stiles**

Stiles is used to bad dreams. He got them all the time as a kid. 

More recently, the real nightmares followed him round during the day, so sleep’s been nice, kind of peaceful. She can’t hurt him in dreams; not really. 

 

This is different. 

 

The whole world is moving, spinning around him, swaying and clanging, like he’s being put through a huge metal compactor. The sound of screeching metal is deafening, and Stiles clamps his hands to his ears harder, squeezes his eyes shut as the Jeep sways under him. 

He’s going to die. And there’s nothing he can do about it. 

 

A hand reaches out, grabs his arms, pins them down. Stiles tries to fight it, but they’re too strong. He struggles, kicking and screaming against them, landing a few kicks here and there, but nothing substantial enough to break free. 

Amy’s face swims in front of him, all blonde hair and huge eyes, narrowed as her nails dig into his arm.

‘Here we are again, Stiles,’ she says, spitting out the words like she wants them to hurt. ‘Can you not even do _one little thing_ on your own?’

‘No… please…’

‘Shhh, Stiles,’ she says, pressing a finger to his lips. ‘We wouldn’t want daddy to hear you begging for your life. Not again.’

    

He can feel tears stinging his eyes, running down his cheeks, pooling at his collar bone, but that doesn’t stop her. If anything, his pain makes her angrier. 

‘What have I told you about crying, Stiles?’ she says, leaning over him, her knees pinning his legs to the ground. ‘It’s pathetic! What are you, a little girl? Be a man for once and fucking deal with it!’

‘No… no… please…’

 

He tries to struggle again, tries to knock her off, but she just laughs, pulls out a knife, the _same_ knife she used last time. 

‘You need to learn, Stiles’ she says softly, running the blade down his cheek. ‘Fighting only gets you hurt. You’d think you’d get that after three years.’

‘Please,’ he gasps, cringing away as the knife drives into his throat. ‘Please… no! No!’

 

**Derek**

 

Stiles is screaming. Screaming so loud, it’s like an open wound, slowly dragging deeper into his skin. 

He turns away as soon as Derek opens the door, wrapping his knees up into his arms to make himself as small as possible. Derek knows he shouldn’t move him, not in this state, but he can’t leave him in the Jeep, especially when there’s a chance that the thing could blow up. 

Slowly, he leans in and wraps his arm around Stiles’ back, ready to lift him out, but Stiles whimpers and tries to pull away.

   

‘Stiles,’ he says gently, not letting go. ‘Stiles, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Derek.’

Derek tries to be as soothing as possible, but it’s no good. Stiles is screaming again, louder than before, the sounds ripped out of him, excruciating. 

He lashes out, feet flying out of the door, hitting Derek square in the chest. The force of it throws Derek off his feet, surprises him enough that he lets go.

Stiles takes the opportunity to launch himself towards the backseat, dragging himself towards the doors. But Derek’s already on his feet, already got hold of his legs, trying to hold him down. 

With one last tug, he pulls Stiles free, lifts him carefully out of the car and lays him down on the floor. 

 

Leaving Stiles, he turns back to the Jeep, switches it off before it catches fire, then kneels down next to him, relying mainly on instinct as he tugs gently at Stiles’ legs, intending to get them above his head, get the blood to his organs before they go into shock.

‘No,’ Stiles moans gently. ‘No… no… no.’

‘It’s okay, Stiles,’ Derek soothes, not letting his ankles go. ‘It’s Derek, it’s ok, I’ve got you.’

   

He knows Stiles is still somewhere between asleep and awake, but that doesn’t stop the gnawing instinct that Stiles can hear him, that he knows he’s there. 

But then he whimpers and tries to roll onto his side, and Derek knows that it’s going to take more than gentle voices to bring him back. 

   

Stiles is sobbing more than hyperventilating, but his heart’s still hammering in his chest, and when Derek tries to get him on his back, Stiles fights harder than ever.

'N-no… please,’ he chokes. ‘Please… please don’t… n-no! No!’

He breaks down into fresh sobs that causes Derek _actual pain_ to hear. It’s like someone twisting a knife in his gut, and it’s driving him crazy.

 

In a fit of panic, Derek remembers Cora during her first full moon, when she looked a lot like Stiles does now; inconsolable, terrified, out of control.  It was a nightmare trying to calm her down. Derek had tried everything, and nothing had worked. That is, until her Alpha stepped in.

Deciding that he’d face the consequences later, Derek takes a deep breath, searches for something deep down in his gut, something primal, animalistic; something that only connects to pack, _his_ pack, his family. He closes his eyes, sees red, then opens them and roars Stiles’ name as loud as he can, teeth sundering as they transform. 

   

He remembers hearing his mother’s roar, but nothing compares to doing it, to _feeling_ the vibrations through his body, connecting him to every single of of his betas, to Stiles and Rachel. Because for the few seconds Derek allows himself to be an Alpha, they’re all he has; they’re all that keeps him human. And they’re his anchor when he eventually lets the connection go.

 

For a few seconds, things are silent, painfully silent, the only sound being Derek’s heavy, laboured breathing. 

Stiles lies very still, staring steadily at Derek’s eyes, eyebrows knitted together in absolute confusion. He blinks twice, then shakes his head, tries to sit up.

‘Woah,’ Derek says softly, pressing down on his shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t sit up so fast.’

‘What was that?’ Stiles asks, leaning back on his elbows despite Derek’s protests. His eyes are narrowed, but not angry; more searching, looking for answers. Derek doesn’t know what to say.

‘I…’

‘Your eyes,’ Stiles cuts across him, wiping messily at his tear-stained face. ‘They just glowed.’

‘Did they?’

Stiles’ eyebrow shoot up. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Bright red.’ 

He takes a second, probably waiting for Derek to say something, but when he doesn’t, Stiles adds, ‘Wanna explain that to me?’

 

Derek takes a deep breath, decides that it’s the right time. 

It’s with his pack in mind when he sighs and says, ‘Stiles, there’s something I want to show you.’

 


	9. Find An Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘So tell me, oh mighty Alpha,’ Stiles mutters, linking his foot around Derek’s. ‘What happens if you can’t get angry? What do you do then?’
> 
> Derek laughs. ‘I find a way.’
> 
> Stiles smirks up at him, eyes blazing. ‘You angry right now?’
> 
> Derek smiles. ‘I’m fining it hard to be.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I lied. I had planned this chapter to be really long, but for some reason, no matter how many times I re-write it, it's just not going my way. So I'm going to upload this little chapter so you having something at least.
> 
> Where the story is going, I think this shorter chapter kind of fits better? Like, I think anything more at this stage would be confusing and irrelevant, so I'm just going with my gut. I really hope to reach the conclusion to this story within the next month, so I'm gonna knuckle down and get writing.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around, guys. I honestly appreciate the support :*

**Stiles**

 Stiles looks from Derek to Scott, then back to Derek in quick succession.

‘Werewolves?’ he says slowly. ‘All of you?’

The five of them glance at each other, Scott and Erica shuffling on the balls of their feet. It’s obvious they’re still not used to telling people. If they were, it wouldn’t be this awkward. 

Stiles stares at them, trying to ignore the dull throbbing on the side of his head, waits until Derek nods his head, and mutters, ‘Yeah.’

‘Even Isaac?’

‘Yes, dumbass, even me,’ Isaac says, his nervous look replaced with exasperation. He opens the first aid kit at his feet, and pulls out an ice pack, smashes it on the ground. 

‘Hold that on there,’ he continues, pressing it onto the side of Stiles’ head. ‘You’re lucky. It’s just a bump.’

‘Are you sure?’ Stiles asks, scrunching his face up. ‘Because Derek’s trying to convince me you’re all werwolves. I think I might be concussed.’

   

He closes his eyes for a second, squeezes them together. It actually helps the pain a little, but it doesn’t stop the crazed feeling slowly seeping into his system; that slightly hysterical buzz that makes him want to burst out laughing and never stop.

 

The couch dips next to him, and he slides a little into whoever sat down. Stiles doesn’t analyse the fact that he knows exactly who it is when a hand grips his gently. 

‘Stiles I’m sorry you had to find out like this,’ Derek says, his voice heavier than Stiles has ever heard it. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘Don’t say sorry,’ Stiles says, opening his eyes. ‘I was bound to find out eventually, right?’

‘Yeah, when Derek found the balls to tell you.’

‘Shut up, Erica,’ Derek huffs. He turns back to Stiles, guilt written across his face. ‘I swear, I was going to tell you.’

Stiles shakes his head, squeezes Derek’s hand softly. 

‘Derek, it’s okay. I’m not exactly an advocate for telling the truth either.’

There’s a part of him that knows he should feel a little betrayed about not being told, about getting in on something he didn’t fully understand. But at the same time, he completely understands why he did it. It’s because not telling and pretending everything’s okay is nearly always easier than telling and having to face the consequences.

 

‘Speaking of the truth,’ he carries on, glancing at the phone in his lap. ‘What’re we gonna tell my dad?’

‘Your dad?’ Derek says, utterly confused for a moment. ‘What about him?

Stiles raises his eyebrows.

‘My Jeep,’ he prompts. ‘I’m not sure I can lie my way out of this one.’

‘Oh,’ Derek sighs. ‘Sorry, I thought you meant… Anyway, you don’t have to worry. He’s taken care of.’

Stiles eyebrows jump in surprise. ‘Really? What did you tell him?’

Derek laughs. ‘The truth.’

‘And it worked?’

‘Yes,’ Derek says, slowly. ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

 

Stiles wants to roll his eyes, but he restrains himself. Because Derek doesn’t know what he was like as a kid, what he’s like _now._ He’s not proud of it, but the truth is something Stiles nearly always skims around. Lying’s sort of become second nature to him. 

‘No reason,’ Stiles dismisses, waving his hand. ‘Just thought he’d be mad. I mean, I use the Jeep to get around. Otherwise I just sort of mope at home, you know.’

‘You don’t have a job?’ Erica asks, swinging her legs up onto Boyd’s lap. ‘What do you do with yourself?’

‘Erica, did you honestly just ask-?’

‘Isaac, we’re not all as gross as you,’ Derek interrupts, sighing in exasperation. ‘Stiles, I’m sure we’ll think of something. There might be a spare patrol car you can use.’

 

‘Not that I don’t love that suggestion, Derek,’ Scott says, sliding off his chair. ‘But what if Stiles came and worked for me?’

Derek tilts his head, thinks about it for a second. ‘At the coffee shop?’

Scott stares at him. ‘No, Derek, the International Space Station.’

‘Alright, smart ass, I was just asking.’

   

Derek turns back to Stiles, gestures at Scott, who’s nervously tugging his shirt into a crinkled mess.

‘What’d you say?’

Stiles looks from Derek, and then to Scott, not quite believing what he’s hearing. ‘You’re offering me a job? Like a real job?’

‘Yeah,’ Scott replies. ‘I mean, you don’t live far away, so it’s no problem picking you up, I hate hiring people I don’t know, and those hands look like they know their way around a coffee machine, so it’s a no-brainer, really.’

‘Scott, what the hell are you talking about?’ Erica scoffs. ‘Are you seriously employing him for his _hands_? His face is right there. That’s pretty enough.’

‘They’re just… I don’t know, Erica, they’re nice hands, okay?’

   

Stiles watches the exchange with a mixture of embarrassment and bone-deep affection for them both. He lets them carry on a bit before he clears his throat and says, ‘I’d love to work for you, Scott.’

‘Great!’ he grins, throwing an arm round Stiles’ shoulder. ‘You start tomorrow.’

Stiles laughs, finds himself leaning into into the touch, moving closer to Scott. ‘Can’t wait.’

‘I’d leave him in charge of the cream, Scotty,’ Erica says, standing up. ‘He looks like he’d know what to do with it.’

Scott trips her up on her way to the kitchen.

 

**Derek**

Derek wakes up absolutely freezing. 

 ****Blinking into the darkness, he reaches out across the bed until he finds the duvet, and tugs it gently. But it won’t budge.

Grumbling softly, he turns over to Rachel’s side of the bed, fully expecting the issue to present itself. And what he finds does not disappoint. 

The entire duvet is wrapped around her, folding her into a little human burrito on the bed, her face poking out from somewhere near the pillow, lips quirked up in the corners. 

Derek thinks about moving her, but he wasn’t raised an asshole, so he sighs and rolls out of bed, goes to grab the spare blanket from the other room.

 

It takes about thirty seconds for Derek to figure out that something’s wrong, and in his sleepy state, his brain has a hard time registering what it is. 

Padding over to the pack, he tries to make out each one of them in the dark. Erica and Boyd are on the two-seater, Isaac’s spread out on the couch, Scott’s on the floor, and Stiles… is gone.

   

Frantic, Derek searches around the others, stumbling over stray pillows and blankets along the way. 

It takes almost five minutes for him to calm down enough to hear the soft beat of his heart, to see the outline of him huddled in the cold outside on the balcony. Derek doesn’t pause to think before he pads quietly outside to join him.

 

‘Stiles?’

‘Hey Derek.’

‘What’re you doing out here? It’s three am.’

Stiles snorts out a laugh, shrugs. ‘I can’t sleep without my pillow.’

‘You were fine the other night,’ Derek teases, nudging a plant pot gently with his foot. Stiles grins.

‘Yeah, well I seem to remember cuddling up to a human furnace, so it wasn’t really that hard.’

 

Derek tries not to blush, but it’s impossible, not when he’s thinking about Stiles’s face on his chest, his heart steady against his ribs. 

He clears his throat, holds up the blanket. ‘The offer’s still there. If you want to, I mean.’

Stiles eyes him carefully for a second, then shuffles over, pats the spot next to him. 

Derek throws the blanket around their shoulders, thanking the heavens that he got the extra large one when they’re able to tuck it under their feet. It’s warm, intimate; something he never thought he’d share with Stiles. But as Stiles moves in a little closer, rests his knee against Derek’s thigh, he realises that it’s all he ever wanted. All of it. Friends, a family, security. He can’t believe it’s taken him all this time to realise just how lucky he really is. 

 

They stare at the stars for a minute, Stiles’ eyes bright and searching in the dark. It’s like he never wants to stop looking, like he wants to capture everything perfectly in his head. His expression’s dreamy, awed, like he’s never seen anything like it. Derek has a hard time concentrating on the view.

 

‘So,’ he says, after a while, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. ‘You stargaze much at home?’

‘All the time,’ Stiles says, tearing his eyes away from the sky. ‘It’s about the only thing I could do to escape, you know?’

He sighs, tugs the blanket closer. ‘I used to sneak onto the roof when Amy was asleep and stare at them for hours. It helped me think.’

‘What’re you thinking about now?’ 

Derek keeps his expression neutral, but he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when Stiles laughs.

‘I was thinking about you, actually,’ he says, quietly. ‘About all of you. All of this,’ he gestures towards the house. ‘It’s just… a lot to take in.’

‘I know,’ Derek says, biting his lip. ‘I’m sorry-‘

‘Ok, no,’ Stiles interrupts him, holding his hand up. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

He runs a hand through his hair, then lets it drop heavily at his side. Derek watches it fall, keeps his eyes trained on it as he continues. 

‘Listen. I couldn’t care less if you guys were a gang of mystical fairies from Munchkin Land. I would still feel the same about you. It’s just that, as bombshells go, finding out your new group of friends are all mystical creatures is sort of up there with the best. I’m just trying to process it all.’

Derek looks down at the ground, bites the inside of his cheek as if it will get rid of the gnawing question lingering at the back of his mind. He breathes slowly for a minute or two, then decides it can’t wait any longer. The world is so quiet, peaceful and soft, but Derek’s brain’s buzzing. So he asks what he’s wanted to ask since day one.

‘Are you scared?’

 

Stiles starts at that, turns his head smoothly to look at him. Derek can’t meet his eye.

‘Jesus, Derek, no,’ he says, nudging him in the side. ‘Who’d be scared of you?’

Derek sighs. ‘You’d be surprised.’

‘What’re you talking about?’ Stiles asks, shuffling, if possible, even closer to him. ‘Everyone else loves you.’

‘Not all the time,’ Derek mutters. ‘Not when I’m… you know.’

‘When you’re what?’ Stiles says, rolling his eyes. ‘What’s so different about you?’

‘I’m an Alpha.’

‘Right,’ Stiles nods, tilting his head in thought. ‘So you’re what? Stronger? Faster? Better in every way?’

‘More dangerous,’ Derek adds, biting his lip again. ‘More deadly…’

Stiles huffs out a laugh, loops his head under Derek’s arm. Derek doesn’t think about how warm her feels with Stiles next to him.

 

He concentrates on the sound of his voice instead, the way he’s humming contentedly, head lolling against his shoulder.

‘Okay,’ Stiles begins. ’So how do you keep those deadly urges at bay?’

Derek manages to laugh. ‘We find an anchor.’

‘And yours is?’

‘Anger.’

 

Stiles nods, rubs his chin like someone coming up with a clinical diagnosis. Except this isn’t science. This is the supernatural, and in this world, anything can happen.

‘So what? You use anger to keep you real, keep you human.’ 

He pauses a second, exhales slowly. ‘Must be nice. Having that much control.’

Derek shrugs. ‘Only nice when you have it.’

‘So tell me, oh mighty Alpha,’ Stiles mutters, linking his foot around Derek’s. ‘What happens if you  can’t get angry? What do you do then?’

Derek laughs. ‘I find a way.’

Stiles smirks up at him, eyes blazing. ‘You angry right now?’

Derek smiles. ‘I’m fining it hard to be.’

‘How about now?’ Stiles says, pinching the skin under Derek’s arm. It doesn’t hurt, but Derek likes the little squeal of pleasure Stiles gives when he pretends it does. 

‘You’re a little shit, you know that?’

‘So I’ve been told.’

Stiles settles back against Derek’s side, suddenly heavy against him, his entire body relying on Derek to hold him up. His voice is slow and lethargic when he adds softly, ‘Now shut up. We don’t wanna wake Isaac up from his beauty sleep. He’s an ass when he’s tired.’

 


	10. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pretends he doesn’t need him.
> 
> But he does.  
> He really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, this chapter is a little different than usual. I wanted to play around with really short transitions between Derek and Stiles narrative, and I'm quite happy with how it turned out. 
> 
> The purpose, more than anything, here, is to show how connected Stiles and Derek are. For those of you wanting fluff, I can almost guarantee that next chapter will be full of it. I feel like this is a really important chapter in terms of character development, and I hope that comes across :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, leave me your comments (I love them) and ENJOY!

**Derek**

‘Will you just spit it out already?’  
 ****

Derek taps his pen against the desk, already agitated. He hasn’t even had his morning coffee yet, and the foggy cloud of sleep still hanging over him is making it hard to do _anything_ , much less work.

Erica raises her eyebrows, looks down at her nails. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’

‘Yes you were,’ Derek sighs, rubbing his temple. ‘You’ve been staring at me ever since we got in the car this morning. It’s annoying.’

‘You’re annoying.’

 

Derek drops his head onto his desk, closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what time he fell asleep last night, but he knows it was too late, even for him. He thinks about the coffee waiting for him in the break room, thinks about not drinking it, then thinks about Scott, wonders if he does deliveries, wonders if Stiles would deliver it…

 

His phone goes off, really fucking loudly. Groaning, he pulls it out, glances at the screen, and freezes, mid yawn.

There, right there on his home screen is a picture. Of him. And Stiles. Cuddling. 

Fuck.

   

‘Wanna explain that to me?’ Erica says, tapping her desk with her nails. Derek winces.

‘It’s not what it looks like,’ he says, half wishing the floor could swallow him up whole. ‘He couldn’t sleep.’

‘Didn’t look like he was having much trouble to me.’

‘That’s because…’

Erica tilts her head, blinks at him. ‘Because what?’

Derek swallows, looks out the door, checks they're alone. ‘Look, it’s a long story. All you need to know is that _nothing happened._ We fell asleep talking. That’s it.’

‘Okay,’ she says, holding her hands up in surrender. ‘I believe you. I’ll drop it.’

‘Thank you,’ Derek sighs, shaking hid head. He goes to put the phone in his bag, ducks below the desk and rummages around. But before he puts it away, he clicks the picture, saves it, then tucks it between his spare socks, trying to forget about how it felt to fall asleep next to Stiles.

 

After that, Derek tries to concentrate on his work, but it’s useless. Ever since he left Stiles this morning, ever since his hand stopped carding through his hair, everything’s felt wrong, like he’s not getting enough oxygen into his lungs. His heart keeps beating out funny rhythms, skipping every so often when he says certain things, or writes in a particular way. It’s like the universe is trying to tell him something, but keeping quiet the minute he tries to work out what it is. And it’s driving Derek crazy.

 

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Erica asks eventually, slamming her folder shut. ‘Why are you moping?’

‘I’m tired,’ Derek says, shaking his head. Erica rolls her eyes.

‘No, Derek, you were tired earlier. Now you’re moping. Why?’

Derek hangs his head, shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I just… something feels off. I can’t-‘

 

The door to the office bangs open, followed by a harassed and exhausted Sheriff. He closes the space between Derek’s desk and the door in three strides, slams a folder down on the desk.

‘Look at her defence witness,’ he says without preamble, his expression completely blank. 

Frowning, Derek takes the folder and flips to the relevant page. His eyes scan down until he finds what he’s looking for, and what he sees makes him want to tear the folder in half.

‘Daehler?’ he says, glancing up at John. ‘The kid who stalked Scott’s girlfriend in high school?’

 John scowls, ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ 

Confused, Derek closes the folder, puts it to one side. He’s never seen John so angry. Even the night at the hospital doesn’t compare to the look on his face now. If Derek didn’t know better, he’d be seriously scared of him right now.

‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’

John eyes flicker from Derek to the file, then back again. When their eyes meet the second time, John looks about ready to kill someone.

‘That Deahler kid,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘The kid who stalked Allison. He’s Amy’s brother.’

 

 

**Stiles**

‘Okay, so you put the syrup in first, then add the milk, then the coffee. If they want added extras, come find me and I’ll do it so you can see. I don’t know how to work the whipped cream thingy so we’ll have to abandon that. All the sprinkles and stuff’s on that shelf, and the milk is in the fridge. Any questions?’  
 ****

Stiles blinks stupidly for a second, then manages a smile. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Great,’ Scott grins, throwing him an apron. ‘Let’s get going.’

 

 

**Derek**

Derek can’t breathe. There’s no other way to describe how he’s feeling.   
 ****

His lungs have stopped working and he can’t breathe. This isn’t how he thought his morning would go.

 

‘We have to tell them,’ he chokes out eventually, forcing himself to look up from the desk. 

‘Tell who?’

‘Scott and Stiles. They need to know.’

John nods, looks down at his watch. ‘You call them. I’m getting everyone into a meeting. Fifteen minutes and I need you in there.’

 

He disappears out the door, followed by Erica, who stops to give him a sad smile before she goes. It’s a testament to how utterly shit this whole situation is that it makes Derek want to cry. 

Slowly, he reaches for the phone and dials Scott’s number, praying for the first time ever, that he won’t pick up.

 

 

**Stiles**

 

Stiles, it turns out, is surprisingly good at making coffee. He works out how much milk to use, works out how to not burn himself with steam, talks to customers. By lunch, he’s buzzing, and it has nothing to do with the coffee.

‘You’re good at this, man,’ Scott says after his break, bringing out a tray of muffins. ‘Are you sure you’ve never done it before?’

‘Nope,’ Stiles laughs, tapping his fingers against the desk. ‘Must have had a good teacher.’

 

Scott beams at that, his whole face lighting up like a little kid being praised for good behaviour. Stiles adds it to the things he loves about Scott McCall. Adorable puppy dog eyes, sunshine smiles. The list goes on. 

Throwing down the tray in his hands, Scott bounds towards Stiles, opens his arms. ‘That’s it. Bro hug time. Bring it in, that’s it. Don’t be shy.’

 

Stiles allows himself to be pulled into a hug, returns it, then lets go, letting Scott clap him on the back. It’s nice; Stiles hasn’t had this kind of relationship with anyone, well, ever. It’s the kind of thing he saw on TV or read about in books. He never thought he’d actually know what it feels like. And now he does, he doesn’t ever want to let it go. 

He _almost_ goes in for a second hug, but stops when he hears the tinkle of the bell.

   

‘Soy, vanilla latte with an extra shot, please.’

Stiles ducks out from behind the machine, logs into the till. ‘No problem, that’ll be two ninety-five, miss- Lydia?’

‘Stiles?’ she asks, staring his dead in the face. ‘Stiles Stilinski?’

‘That’s me,’ he says, reaching over to pull her into an awkward, one armed hug. 

‘I haven’t seen you since college,’ she says, a little frown creeping across her forehead. ‘You never returned my calls.’

   

Stiles feels his stomach drop before he even understands why. Then it hits him, and it’s like a steam train running over his ribcage. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters, ‘Amy-‘

‘Amy?’ Lydia says shortly. ‘ _That’s_ the Amy Jackson keeps telling me about. That’s the one who…’

She trails away, and Stiles ducks his head, not wanting to see the pity in her eyes, not wanting to hear her lame attempts at comfort. He gets enough of that from everyone else.

 

But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even flinch. When Stiles chances a look at her, there’s no pity, just a sort of searching look that’s somewhere between affection and pride.

‘You broke up with her, right?’

Stiles nods. He thinks she’s going to be serious with him for a second, but then she smiles, and it’s like all the clouds have melted away. 

‘Thank god,’ she says, winking. ‘You were way too good for her, anyway.’

Stiles doesn’t even think before he grins back. ‘Thanks, Lyds.’

 

‘Hey, hey, what’s all this slacking, Stilinski? I don’t pay you to talk to pretty girls.’

Scott comes up behind him, smacks his ass with a spare dishtowel. Stiles just laughs.

‘Scott, this is Lydia. She’s a friend from college.’

‘Hey,’ Scott extends a hand, kisses Lydia’s gently before sashaying away to make her coffee. 

‘Always the charmer,’ Stiles smiles, watching him make the order he wrote down. When he looks back, though, Lydia’s fixing him with this _look_ , like she the ones she used back in college. It _still_ makes him feel about five years old.

‘What?’ he asks, narrowing his eyes. She hums under her breath.

‘Nothing. You just look… good. Happier. It suits you.’

‘Err, thanks,’ he says, tugging at the neck of his shirt. 

‘It’s nice to see you with some real friends,’ she continues, as he if he hadn’t said anything. ‘You look like you fit in here.’

Stiles winks at her. ‘Hey, I still had you, right?’

Lydia grins. ‘Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.’

 

She rummages around in her purse, pulls out a business card and scribbles on the back before handing it to him. 

‘I was going to find you, anyway. I knew you moved back here after college. I wanted to catch up.’

‘Hey,’ Scott says, sliding her coffee across the counter, his eyed glued to the address written on the card in Stiles’ hand. ‘That’s two floors up from Derek!’

‘Derek?’ Lydia asks, confused. Stiles laughs.

‘He’s a friend. We all hang out there. You should come down. I’m sure Derek wouldn’t mind.’

Lydia beams at him, slides money across the counter towards Scott, who adamantly pushes it back at her, babbling about friends and family discount. 

Grin wider than Stiles has ever seen it, she scoops up the money and drops it into the tip jar. 

‘Wouldn’t want the puppy to cry,’ she winks, picking up her coffee. ‘Text me, okay?’

‘Course,’ Stiles smiles. ‘See ya.’

 

He watches her leave, inhales the slight scent of perfume she left behind. Scott nudges him, throws an arm around his shoulder. 

‘She can stay,’ he says, moving off to clean the counter. 

‘Why’s that?’ Stiles asks, washing the stuff in the sink. 

‘She makes you smile,’ he says simply. ‘I like it when you smile.’

Stiles rolls his eyes, but then ducks his head closer to the sink. Because he doesn’t want Scott to see just _how_ happy he is. It just feels, that despite the panics, the car crashes and the fear, things are finally starting to fall into place. And that’s something Stiles has been waiting a long time to feel.

 

 

**Derek**

The office is too silent, too empty with Erica gone. The dial tone’s loud in in ear, like a warning. 

He manages two breaths before it starts ringing, but really, all he wants to do is stop. Stop breathing, stop calling, stop _caring_. 

But he can’t. Because he does care. Cares so _so_ much.

 

Derek’s pretty sure it’s going to kill him one day.

 

 

**Stiles**

Scott answers the phone on the third ring, and immediately, Stiles knows something’s wrong. He can tell by the way his body tenses when he sees the number, the way his hands shake when he picks the phone up, the way his voice almost cracks when he says, ‘Derek?’  
 ****

Stiles tries to be calm, but he’s finding it hard to be. Derek called the work phone, which means this is serious, police work. If it wasn’t, he would have called Scott’s cell. If it wasn’t serious, Stiles is almost certain Derek would have called him first.

He tries to be calm, but it’s impossible. Because just like everything else, this is going to be taken from him. There’s going to be another barrier to face, another compromise to be made.

 

This is going to be bad. And Stiles doesn’t know if he has the strength to fight it. 

 

 

 

**Derek**

When he gets off the phone with Scott, he’s exhausted. Like bone-deep, heavy limbed,  exhaustion.   
 ****

He puts the phone down and presses his face into the palms of his hands, rubs his tired eyes. Not for the first time, Derek wishes he was back on the balcony, talking to Stiles like nothing mattered, like they could do anything. He wants to feel that unstoppable again. But if anything, he feels exactly the opposite. He feels breakable, fragile, vulnerable. And that’s the one thing he really can’t afford to be right now.

 

‘Derek,’ Erica says quietly, poking her head round the door. ‘We’re ready when you are.’

‘Coming,’ he sighs, forcibly dragging himself from the room. 

There’s no one around, not even the junior staff, who don’t usually get involved in big cases. John must be on the warpath. 

 

As expected, when he gets to the meeting, John’s already in full swing, ticking off tasks as he addresses them from the paper in front of him.

‘Right,’ he nods, dragging the case notes towards him. ‘We need eyes everywhere. Boyd, while he’s here, I want all your newbies out looking for him. If he even _looks_ like he might be breaking his conditions, you bring him in, got it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Boyd nods at the juniors, takes them out of the room. Then it’s just John, Derek, Erica and Jackson.

 

John waits until they’re completely alone before he starts talking again, hushed this time, like he’s telling them a secret.

‘Alright,’ he says, looking at them properly for the first time. ‘I know how much of a hassle this is, but in light of everything that’s happening, I can’t have Stiles living at home. If Deahler wants to start trouble, it’ll be the first place he targets.’

Without hesitation, Derek looks up, palms suddenly very hot. 

‘He can stay with me,’ he says a little too quickly. Erica’s eyebrows travel a foot up her forehead. 

‘I, err… I have a spare room, I mean.’

John tilts his head a little at him, then nods approvingly, ticking that off the steadily growing list on his notepad. 

‘Thank you, Derek.’

 

He slowly closes his file, looks each of them in the eye. ‘I know I’m making a big deal out of this,’ he says wearily. ‘But we all know what he’s capable of. And we don’t know how he’s reacted to Amy’s charges. If anything, it’s probably made him more dangerous than ever.’

John sighs, the adds, ‘If he’s going to be in Beacon Hills, I want to know people are safe, if not from him, from the case. We can’t have everyone getting involved. Not yet.’

Derek nods, stands up, suddenly more determined than ever to get this right, to keep Stiles safe. With a kind of fire he’s never felt burning inside him, he walks to the door, then turns and says, ‘We’ll keep him safe, John.’

   

It’s with a sad smile that John nods his head and murmurs, ‘I know you will, Derek. I know you will.’

 

 

**Stiles**

Stiles only pukes twice when he finds out. He likes to think that’s an improvement on last time. 

 

‘Honestly,’ Isaac groans, rubbing circles into Stiles’ back. ‘What is it with you and sick?’

‘Sorry,’ Stiles mutters, mouth numb from the amount of mouthwash he’s used to get the taste out of his mouth. ‘But in my defence, last time I got upset, I crashed a car, so you’ve actually got the better deal.’

‘Lucky me,’ Isaac laughs despite himself, moving over to check Stiles’ temperature for the _fifth_ time. 

‘I’m fine,’ Stiles assures him, swatting his hand away. ‘I puke when I get anxious.’

‘First of all, that’s complete bullshit,’ Isaac says casually, pressing his fingers gently into his throat glands. ‘Second, Scott told me you had three cups of coffee today.’

_Damn_

Stiles winces. ‘They were… really small.’

Isaac gives him a withering look before deeming Stiles healthy enough to be let go. ‘I _told_ you, Stiles. With your anxiety and the lingering effects of that seemingly ever-present ADHD, coffee is literally the last thing you should be drinking. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t puke more considering how high your heart rate was.’

Stiles pouts. ‘You’re a real dick when you’re being smart with me.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re a dick pretty much all the time, so I guess we’re even.’

 

Laughing, Stiles sits down on the edge of Derek’s bathtub, steadies himself before he tries to go anywhere. 

After the phone call at the shop, Scott had driven him straight to Derek’s, refused to tell him anything until he was safely inside. And then Stiles had thrown up. 

He’s pretty sure it had more to do with the crippling anxiety than the coffee, but Isaac’s right, it can’t have helped. Stiles is still feeling a little spaced out; like he’s seeing everything from inside a bubble. It’s not really helping the whole sick thing.

 

Stiles’ thoughts are interrupted by a crash that can only be the front door slamming. It shakes the whole apartment, even the bathtub. Isaac instinctively gabs a bucket when Stiles goes green.

‘What the-?’

   

Isaac’s voice is drowned out, replaced by an almost incoherently angry one.

‘What are you thinking!?’ Scott shouts from the other room. ‘How the hell is he allowed anywhere _near_ this town?’

‘What do you want me to do, Scott?’ Derek shouts back. ‘Stop the trial? You know we can’t ban him from Beacon Hills altogether.’

‘Oh, yeah? And what about Allison, huh? What about Stiles? How are we supposed to protect them with him here?’

‘We’re working on it, Scott!’

‘Work harder!’

 

Isaac drops the bucket, gives Stiles a nervous look. ‘I’ve got to go and stop them before they do something stupid. Stay in here if you know what’s good for you.’

With that he bolts from the room, leaving the door open behind him. Stiles follows anyway, regardless of the fact that his legs feel like rubber. 

He pokes his head into the next room, just in time to see Isaac pushing his way between the two of them. Scott looks furious, but it’s nothing compared to Derek, who looks about ready to kill if he has to. 

Stiles thinks back to last night, about how Derek had said anger was his anchor, told him how it keeps him human. From what Stiles can see now, Derek was either lying, or he’s so angry, he can’t use it to help. 

 

Taking a breath that ends up sticking in his throat, Stiles steps forward, towards them, eyes focused on Derek’s, letting the red in them calm his thoughts. 

   

It’s only when they both start to completely wolf out that Stiles makes his mind up. 

Ignoring the pain in his head and chest, Stiles runs, pushes himself between Derek and Scott, his back pressing into Isaac’s.

‘Stiles, what’re you-?’

‘Trust me,’ he replies, turning his head to Isaac’s ear. ‘I want to help.’

 

He turns back to Derek, tires to push him back, but unsurprisingly, it makes no difference. 

‘Derek,’ he tries, keeping his hands planted firmly on the Alpha’s chest. He hasn’t transformed completely yet. He still looks like himself, just with claws and fangs. Stiles makes a mental note to avoid them.

‘Derek, listen to me,’ he tries again, his voice as strong as he can manage. ‘Remember when you told me about anger? How it keeps you human? Look at me, Derek. You’ve got to use it. I don’t care if you’re upset. I don’t care if things are hopeless. The only time you use anger is to ground yourself. Otherwise you become a monster. And you’re not a monster, Derek.’

Derek backs down a little, but it’s not enough. Stiles knows he’s still on the edge of losing it, of giving in. So he stays, shifts his hands over to his heart. He looks dead into Derek’s eyes, ferocity burning in them, an inner strength he’d never felt before. It makes him stronger, it _anchors_ him. Stiles wants to think it came from himself, but he knows that’s probably not true. 

‘You told me I’d be scared of you,’ he says, keeping eye contact. ‘But I’m not, Derek. I’m not scared at all. Because you might be dangerous, you might be deadly, but you’re not a monster. You’re a human being. Start acting like one.’

 

 

**Derek**

Things come back slowly, piece by piece, like water calming after a storm.   
 ****

At first all he feels is blind anger, fear, rage, sadness. But then he hears Stiles, and it’s like all he can focus on is the sound of his voice, ringing through the madness, like a light through fog.

He feels a hand press against his heart, warming the places that were cold, slowing things down, making everything less immediate. 

Little by little, the anger fades away, taking with it everything he thought he needed. Because for some reason, anger wasn’t enough today. He needed something else, _someone_ else to bring him back this time. And it’s confusing enough to make him stop.

 

 

**Stiles**

 Isaac stops talking a few seconds after him, obviously having a hard time calming Scott down. 

For a while, all of them stand there, breathing heavily, not daring to move in case it sets one of them off again. 

Stiles doesn’t break eye contact with Derek, even though the tugging feeling in the pit of his stomach’s turned into more of a stabbing sensation. He keeps him there, trying to hold them both together, when in reality, all he wants to do is break.  

 

 

**Derek**

 He’s calm enough that Stiles’ scent is more than just ‘human.’ It’s anxiety, cold sweat, exhaustion. But it’s also powerful, comforting, familiar. 

At least Derek knows that no matter what, Stiles will always smell like the ground after rain.

 

 

**Stiles**

 Stiles pretends he doesn’t know that Derek smells like log fires and wet leaves and cinnamon. 

 

He pretends that he doesn’t have to find it to feel safe.

 

 

**Derek**

 He pretends he doesn’t need him.

 

But he does.

He really does.


	11. Electric Current

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He takes Rachel’s hand when she leads him to the bedroom, his heart a little lighter than before. Because despite everything, despite all the crap they’ve been through, Derek feels happy. And impossibly, when he gets into bed, he doesn’t feel scared. He feels safe, knowing Stiles is here. 
> 
> And although he knows he probably shouldn’t, he lets himself fall asleep to the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat ringing in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one where they make pillow forts! It's kinda sad, kinda fluffy, kinda cute. You decide haha!
> 
> If you like it, let me know in the comments, and as always, I hope you enjoy!!!

**Stiles**

He bites the inside of his cheek, not entirely sure what to say. 

They’d moved to the kitchen, just him and Derek, leaving Isaac to sit with Scott for a minute in the living room. It seemed like the right thing to do. Isaac’s calm, reassuring; perfect for Scott, who’s somewhere between angry and completely devastated. 

Derek’s just quiet, staring down into his lap, hands clenched together. All Stiles can do is wait for him. 

 

'Don’t do that again.’

His voice is barely above a whisper, but Stiles hears it all the same.

‘What?’ he says softly, hardly daring to talk any louder. 

Derek doesn’t look up, but he shifts a little, unusually slow, calculated, like he doesn’t trust himself to move any faster. 

‘Don’t jump into a fight like that again. I don’t… I can’t protect you when I’m… when you’re…’

He stops, closes his eyes, like it hurts to have them open. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so upset. 

 

Slowly, he leans forward, puts a hand on Derek’s knee, tries to make it reassuring. 

‘Derek, I’m not afraid.’

‘But I am,’ Derek says, finally looking up. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

Stiles smiles. ‘You didn’t hurt me.’

He holds out both arms to show him, turns his palms over twice. ‘See, nothing. Not even a scratch.’

Derek glances at them, eyes lingering across the moles scattered there before they drop back to the floor. 

‘I _could_ have hurt you. I could have-‘

‘But you didn’t,’ Stiles cuts across him. ‘You _didn’t_ hurt me. There’s a difference between _almost_ doing something and actually doing it.’

Derek huffs. ‘Not much of a difference.’

Stiles smiles, shrugs. ‘It’s enough for me.’

 

Derek doesn’t respond, but he looks thoughtful, maybe even a little surprised at his answer. Stiles knows it’s probably confusing. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing when it comes to Derek. He just knows that Derek means safety. And Stiles needs all the safely he can get at the moment.

 

‘How are you so okay with this?’ Derek asks after a minute. ‘Most people would have run screaming by now.’

Stiles snorts, looks down slowly at his hands, contemplating the question. ‘I’m not most people.’

 

Derek opens his mouth to answer, but before he can say anything, Isaac pokes his head round the door, eyeing Derek tentatively. 

‘Scott’s ready to apologise,’ he says softly. ‘D’you wanna come back in here?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies instead, getting up. ‘I should probably say sorry too. I was out of order.’

Isaac smiles, his chest deflating like he was holding in a breath. ‘Awesome. I’ll go tell Scott.’

 

He disappears, leaving them alone again. Stiles stands up as well, smiles at him. 

‘You’re a good guy, Derek. Don’t hate yourself over this.’

‘I don’t hate myself,’ Derek says, brushing past him. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’

Stiles wishes he could believe that.

 

 

**Derek**

He leaves the kitchen before he can look at Stiles any more. 

It’s like his face is burnt into his eyelids, flashing into life every time he blinks, haunting him in a way Derek never thought he’d be okay with.

Up close, Stiles’ skin is an odd mix of pale and tan, kind of sun-kissed, like he’s spent all day outside. Derek tries not to think about it as he leaves the kitchen, tries not to think about the freckles up his arms or the little dimple he has at the base of his thumb. He tries not to think about him, but there’s nothing he can do about it. Stiles is there, all the time, even when he shouldn’t be. And it’s driving him crazy.

 

Back in the living room, Scott’s huddled on the couch, his eyes red from crying, hiccuping softly into the sleeve of the hoodie Isaac must have given him. 

He looks up when Derek gets closer, and immediately jumps up, runs into Derek’s arms, nuzzles his face into his chest. He closes his eyes against his shirt.

‘I’m sorry, Derek,’ he mutters against the fabric. ‘I’m j-just so w-worried.’

Derek rubs his back carefully, pulls him in closer. ‘Shh, Scott, it’s alright. If anyone should be apologising it’s me. I should know better. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re just doing your job. You s-shouldn’t have to j-justify that.’

‘And you’re looking out for people you care about. You shouldn’t have to justify that either.’

Scott laughs, even though it turns into more of a sob, and squeezes him a little tighter.

‘You’re a really good Alpha, Derek. I know you don’t believe it, but you are. You really are.’

 

It feels like all of Derek’s insides have been hollowed out, but it doesn’t stop the little trickle of warmth flood through him when Scott smiles against him, breaths softly against his chest. 

He lets himself take as much from the hug as he can, lets the bond make him stronger, calmer. He reminds himself that this is why he built the pack in the first place; to have someone to turn to when you can’t carry on. To have someone to hold you up when you’re falling down. 

It’s the reason he misses his family so much, the reason he got so angry in the first place. Because he’s already had his pack taken from him once. And he’s not willing to risk that happening again. Not now, not ever.

   

This pack is his life. And he’ll do anything to keep them safe. 

 

**Stiles**

He lingers in the kitchen for a second, runs a hand through his hair. 

 

Stiles has never seen Derek’s eyes up close before. Well, he has, but he’s never taken the time to _really_ look at them, to notice how green they are. Kind of soft, blurred at the edges, like someone blended five colours together with their thumb. 

They’re like art, a painting he doesn’t want to stop staring at. Because every time he looks, there’s something new, something interesting. 

Stiles wonders how long it’ll take to see the smile behind them again.

 

He watches as Scott and Derek hug, let’s it settle that this is his life now. 

He could join in if he wanted. He could pull one of them aside and cry with them for hours. He could do anything with these guys and it wouldn’t matter. This is pack, and even though he hasn’t been a part of it that long, Stiles already knows how much that word means, especially to Derek. It means safety and support and home. Stiles is willing to bet his right arm that Derek would give his life for any one of them. 

 

‘I have to go,’ Derek says quietly, lifting his chin up from where it was resting on the top of Scott’s head. ‘I offered to help pack Stiles’ stuff. John was expecting me twenty minutes ago.’

‘Okay,’ Scott sniffs, breaking away from him. ‘You’re coming back though, right?’

Derek laughs, ruffles his hair. ‘I live here, Scott. If I don’t I’ll be sleeping on the streets.’

   

Stiles stares at them both, tries to ignore the clawing in his stomach telling him to get in on the hug.  He’d probably feel weird about it, but Isaac’s looking at the pair of them like they just hung the stars in the sky, so he figures it’s not that strange.

It’s only when Derek turns to him, his face flushed and suddenly calm, that he looks down. Because Stiles is still struggling from this desperate need to _touch_ , and he’s one hundred per-cent sure that if he looks now, he won’t be able to stop himself. 

‘Do you want anything specific?’ Derek asks him, moving forward slightly. ‘Anything you can’t live without?’

‘Why don’t I just come with you?’ Stiles asks, looking everywhere _but_ his eyes. ‘It’ll be easier.’ 

Derek smiles sadly. 

‘Your dad doesn’t want you to be anywhere near the house at the moment. He’s gonna come and see you here, I promise.’ 

He pauses a second, then adds. ‘He cares about you. I-we-all of us. We care about you. I just want you to be safe.’

   

Betraying his own instinct, Stiles glances up, straight into his eyes. His stomach backflips. 

‘I know,’ he breaths, trying to find air that won't come. ‘I’m not upset. I… I just want to help.’

Derek smiles, shrugs his head back. ‘Why don’t you hang out with Scott for me. It looks like he needs cheering up.’

‘Yeah,’ Isaac adds, grabbing his bag. ‘Especially as I have to go. I was supposed to be at work ten minutes ago. Mrs Johnson won’t be happy with me.’

Derek nods, grabs his own bag. ‘I’ll give you a ride. It’s on the way.’

He turns back before he leaves, eye flickering between Scott and Stiles. ‘You’re gonna be alright, yeah?’

Stiles chances another look, winks without really thinking about it, then blinks, as if that’ll cover up that he just fucking _winked_ at Derek. 

‘We’ll… err.. we’ll be fine. Right, Scott?’

‘Absolutely.’

Derek laughs, shakes his head. ‘Great. See you later.’

 

**Derek**

****‘You alright, man?’

Isaac snaps his fingers in front of his face, jolting Derek out of his thoughts. He starts, blinks twice. 

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Because we’ve been sitting at these lights for almost five minutes.’

Derek blushes, shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’

 

He puts the car in gear and drives away, rolls down his window, takes a deep breath of fresh air. 

Isaac tilts his head at him, raises his eyebrows. 

‘So?’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Derek replies, eyes focused on the road. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘Nothing.’

 

Isaac sighs dramatically, rolls his eyes so hard, Derek’s surprised he didn’t rip them out of their sockets. 

‘Derek, when are you going to wake up and realise that you can’t hide anything from me? I practically wrote the handbook on the various moods your eyebrows portray.’

Derek huffs out a laugh, pointedly keeps his eyes forward.

‘Really? What’re they telling you right now?’

Isaac hums, leans forward to get a better look. ‘They’re saying ‘ _I’m a colossal dick who’s hiding things from his favourite beta._ ’ 

‘That precise, huh?’

Isaac nods. ‘I don’t mess around with my eyebrow analysis.’

 

Derek hangs his head for a second, lets himself smile. He stops at the next set of lights, leans his head on his arm.

‘Isaac, what the fuck are we talking about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Isaac says, dropping his head against the window. ‘I was just trying to make you smile or… _something_. You look like a kicked puppy, man. I’m just trying to help.’

Derek sighs, runs a hand through his hair. ‘Isaac I’m fine, I promise. I’m just tired. You don’t have to worry about me.’

Isaac snorts, nudges him in the ribs. ‘I know. But I’d be a pretty shitty friend if I didn’t.’

 

They fall silent for the rest of the car journey, Isaac humming quietly under his breath. 

Derek can’t stop thinking about Stiles, about the way he smiles when he doesn’t think Derek’s looking, at the way he stares into his eyes, like he’ll never get enough. It makes Derek itch for something, _anything_ more; more time, more talking, more touching. It’s something he’s never experienced before, not even with Rachel. 

He wishes his mom was still here. She’d understand. She’d be able to help. But she’s gone, and he has to work this out on his own, whatever _this_ is. And the thought of that absolutely terrifies him.

 

**Stiles**

‘We have two options,’ Scott says seriously, holding up his fingers as he reels them off. ‘Video games or pillow forts. Your choice.’  
 ****

Stiles hums softly, taps a finger against his chin. ‘How about we play video games _inside_ a pillow fort?’

Scott grins, throws his arms up like Stiles is a genius. 

‘ _This_ is why I like you,’ he says, pulling him towards the spare room. ‘You think _outside_ the box.’

‘What can I say?’ Stiles laughs, catching the pillow Scott throws at him. ‘I’m man enough to admit I like a good pillow fort.’

‘Which is why you’ll forever be cooler than Isaac.’

‘Thanks, Scotty.’

‘No problem.’

 

They drag all the pillows they can find, including the couch cushions, into the space in front of the TV, stacking them into a neat little nest, complete with blankets. Stiles has to admit, it’s fucking awesome.

‘Right,’ Scott sighs, flopping down on a pile of cushions. ‘Let’s play. I don’t want to waste any time kicking your ass at Mario Kart.’

‘Pretty bold statement for a man sat inside a pillow fort,’ Stiles snickers, tucking himself inside. 

‘I’m allowed to be cocky,’ Scott shrugs, accepting the controller from Stiles. ‘I’m the Mario Kart champion.’

Stiles snorts. ‘Yeah, we’ll see.’

 

**Derek**

Derek pulls up at Stiles’ house forty minutes late, parks in the driveway next to the cruiser. 

‘Get lost?’ John says when he opens the door. 

‘Not exactly,’ Derek mutters, stepping inside. ‘We had some… complications with Scott. It’s all sorted now.’

John raises his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t take the news well, then?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘None of them did.’

 

John runs a hand through his hair, sighs. ‘Probably should have seen that coming.’

'They’re fine, John,’ Derek says, trying to sound as supportive as possible. ‘Scott and Stiles are at my place, Isaac’s at work. Nothing’s falling apart. We’re fine.’

John huffs out a laugh. ‘Yeah, but for how long?’

 

Derek doesn’t respond, mainly because John’s right. Something’s bound to happen. Matt’s a ticking time bomb, and Derek really doesn’t want to be around when he goes off. But right now, everything’s okay; not good, not terrible, just okay. Derek wonders when he started seeing that as a positive more than a negative.

 

He follows John upstairs when he gestures, remembering the last time he’d been to Stiles’ room. Derek wonders if it’ll look different without him in it, without him hunched over his computer, or sprawled out on the bed, or thumbing through books on the window ledge. He wonders if it’ll feel just as maddening as it did the last time he went in.

 

‘Jesus, this place is a shit hole,’ John sighs, grabbing a used towel off the floor and flinging it into the wash hamper. ‘I would tell him to clean the place, but I know he hasn’t been using it as much nowadays.’

Derek squirms uncomfortably, twists his jumper in his hands. ‘Sorry, John. It’s my fault. He’s gotten really friendly with Scott, and most of the time, they just crash out on the couch. I never have the heart to move them.’

‘Oh, god, that’s not what I meant,’ John says, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I’m glad he’s found friends, Derek. I’ll be honest, I haven’t seen him this happy since he was nine and I got him a bunch of comic books for his birthday.’

He smiles absently at the memory, then adds. ‘He was singing in the shower, Derek. _Singing_. He hasn’t done that since he left for college.’

   

Derek ducks his head, tries not to go bright red at the thought of Stiles _in the shower_ , then tugs gently at his bed sheets. 

‘Would he want these?’ he asks, in favour of answering. ‘It might make him feel more comfortable.’

‘I don’t think so,’ John says, giving him a searching look. ‘He seems pretty comfortable without them.’

‘It’s just,’ Derek carries on without thinking, ‘I know he can’t sleep without his pillow.’

 

John laughs, chucks the pillow on the small pile of things he’s already packed. 

‘It’s more of a comfort thing,’ he explains. ‘When his mom died, his therapist told him to find something to ground himself with when he got scared or upset. Stiles chose his pillow. It’s sort of his anchor now.’

John looks up from the pile of folded clothes he's moving, frowns at Derek in contemplation. 

‘At least, it was, anyway.’

Derek looks up, tilts his head. ‘Sir?’

‘He’s been using that pillow for nearly fifteen years, and and nothing else has ever worked,’ he says quietly. ‘Nothing expect you.’

 

Derek stays very still, keeps his eyes focused on the socks he’s rolling up. Because Derek _knows_ there’s something there, some kind of connection between them. But it’s something Derek can’t understand, let alone explain. So he stays quiet, lets the socks tumble onto the pile.

‘I just… I understand what he’s going through,’ he says, almost in a whisper. ‘I know what it’s like to be scared.’

‘I know you do,’ John says, giving him a sad smile. ‘But I tell you what, if this whole thing makes Stiles half the man you are, I’ll be a happy man.’

He closes the bag he’s holding, slings it onto his back. Just as he reaches the doorway, he turns around, looks Derek straight in the eye, and adds, ‘Your father would have been very proud.’

 

Derek waits until John gets to the bottom of the stairs before he collapses, lands in a heap on the floor and cries. Cries for the first time in almost twelve years. Because hearing that took him back to the fire, to sitting in John’s office, covered in soot, to when John looked at him in exactly the same way and said, ‘ _They’d be proud of you.’_

Derek still doesn’t believe him.

 

*

When Derek eventually staggers into the apartment, hauling three bags of Stiles’ things, the only light on is the one in the kitchen.

Dumping the bags by the door, he yawns and makes his way towards it, running a hand through his hair. 

He stopped crying relatively quickly considering, but he still has a dull, sickly feeling in his throat that won’t shift no matter how hard he tries. His eyes are still a little red, but Derek’s blaming that on ‘chronic hay fever,’ and ‘sleep deprivation.’ He’s pretty sure John bought it. 

 

Rachel’s waiting for him in the kitchen, tucked onto a chair with a mug of something that smells like chocolate and caramel and toasted marshmallows in her hands.  

‘When did you get in?’ Derek asks, kissing her head softly. 

‘About half an hour ago,’ she smiles, downing the rest of her drink. ‘Had some plans to sort out.’

Derek pours himself some milk, downs it in one. ’Why’re you in here then? Isn’t that show you always watch on?’

Rachel’s smile widens as she puts the mug in the sink, shuffling her slippered feet back over to the table. ‘Go see for yourself.’

 

Frowning, Derek creeps into the dark living room and over to the couch where… _oh_.

Scott and Stiles are asleep, tangled together on the floor under a pile of pillows, like they passed out mid-game. Stiles’ head is dangling dangerously off the edge of one of the bigger couch cushions, his arm following suit, still half holding the controller. 

Scott’s curled up around him, head on his chest, his mouth hanging open. Soft snores come every so often, breaking the silence they created when they fell asleep. 

   

Derek gapes at them for a second before Rachel joins him, bumping her hip against his.

‘Aren’t they cute?’ she whispers fondly. ‘They were like that when I came in.’

‘We should put something under Stiles’ head,’ Derek whispers back, nodding in acknowledgement. ‘He can’t sleep like that all night.’

He lifts Stiles’ up gently, positions them so Scott’s practically cuddling him, both of them curled on one cushion.

   

Derek lingers a little while he’s moving them, notices the dark circles under Stiles’ eyes, the little smile still curled on his lips. It makes Derek think that things might just be okay; that if he can still smile despite everything, they might make it to the other side. 

Before he moves away, Derek throws a blanket over them, tucks it around their chins like his dad used to do for him. His fingers brush Stiles’ neck as he pulls away, and it’s like an electric currentrunning through his veins, lighting him up, tingling. 

 

He takes Rachel’s hand when she leads him to the bedroom, his heart a little lighter than before. Because despite everything, despite all the crap they’ve been through, Derek feels happy. And impossibly, when he gets into bed, he doesn’t feel scared. He feels safe, knowing Stiles is here. 

And although he knows he probably shouldn’t, he lets himself fall asleep to the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat ringing in his ears. 

   


	12. Slow Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deciding it’s best to get it over with, Stiles shakes his head, blinks a little to wake himself up, then walks towards the living room door, pushes it open soundlessly.
> 
> ‘Okay, guys, you can come out-‘

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sorry this took so long to post! I've been a busy, busy bee :) And I'm gonna be honest with you guys (because I feel like this is a beautiful thing we have going here), I found this chapter incredibly hard to write. I don't know whether it has to do with personal stuff, or whether I'm too excited for the next part, but I hope it lives up to your expectations!
> 
> And I know you guys asked for possessive!Derek, but he's coming, I swear! For now, I send you on your way with Trials, pillow forts and Possessive!Scott instead :D 
> 
> If you like, please let me know in the comments, and as always, ENJOY!!

**Stiles**

Stiles taps his fingers nervously against the plastic work surface, drumming out an uneven rhythm with his nails.   
 ****

It’s almost ten thirty, and nobody’s come in for almost an hour. The shop’s empty, Scott’s out the back getting more syrup, and Stiles is losing his mind.

 

He’d never been given an exact date for the trial, or even real confirmation that one was happening in the first place. It’s not like he can easily access important police documents from his bedroom, and now he’s at Derek’s, the chances of him seeing _anything_ about the case has gone from from slim to none. Derek won’t let him within a mile of the station, let alone leave case notes lying around on the kitchen table for him to find.

Selfless fucker. 

 

‘How’re you holding up?’ Scott asks, nudging his way through the door, carrying a box full of syrup. 

Stiles nods. ‘Fine.’

‘That,’ Scott huffs, dropping the box, ‘is the voice of a man who is the opposite of fine.’ 

He kicks the box under the counter, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘It’s okay to be nervous, you know. It’s kind of a big deal.’

‘Yeah I know,’ Stiles sighs, dropping his head into his hand. ‘I just wish they’d told me sooner.’

‘What, and have you worrying for three weeks? I don’t think so.’

Scott nods knowingly, moves over to the sink, gets elbow deep in soapy water.

 

He’s right, obviously. Stiles _would_ have freaked out if he knew the exact date of the trail. But he still didn’t expect Derek to sit him down in the kitchen and announce it out of the blue like that. He might as well have given him a cake with, ‘ _Congratulations! Your puppy died,’_ written across the top. It probably would have hurt less. And he would have gotten cake out of it. 

 

‘You know you’re going to win, dude,’ Scott says, running the mugs he’s cleaning under the tap. ‘She’s a dick.’

Stiles laughs. ‘And that’s the basis for a criminal conviction because…?’

‘ _Because_ ,’ Scott sighs, flicking bubbles at his face, ‘it means she won’t get the sympathy vote. The jury’ll hate her before she walks in the room.’

‘Oh Scotty,’ Stiles smiles, resting his head on the coffee machine. ‘I’d love to live inside your head.’

‘You couldn’t handle my head,’ Scott laughs, drying his hands with a dishtowel. ‘Far too much awesome. You couldn’t handle it.’

 

They trail into silence for a minute, Scott sorting out the syrups while Stiles busies himself with the till. It’s boring stuff, and after a while, Stiles needs to talk again. Anything to silence the nagging voice at the back of his head. 

‘You think Derek kept the pillow fort up?’ he says, rolling up receipt paper. Scott laughs.

‘Doubt it. Old grumpy cat can’t even deal with a towel being left on the floor, let alone have his pillows dislodged.’

Stiles sighs, tucks the paper into the machine. ‘It’s a shame, bro. It was totally kick-ass.’

'Tell me about it,’ Scott says, walking over to lean against the counter next to him. ‘Best sleep I’ve had in ages.’

‘That’s cause you were spooning me.’

Scott shrugs. ‘I like to cuddle.’

Stiles laughs, throws an arm around his shoulders. ‘Me too, bro. Me too.’

 

**Derek**

 

He’s going to puke. Or pass out. One of the two.

 

He waits outside the courtroom, tugging at the collar of his shirt nervously. When he put it on this morning, it felt fine. Now it feels small, constricting, like he can’t breathe in it.

Derek restrains himself from undoing the top button, not used to looking smart for anything. Even their work parties are smart casual. He hasn’t worn a suit since prom, back in high school. He didn’t like it then, either. 

 

Trying to calm himself down, he zeros in on Stiles’ heartbeat, letting himself have that one small comfort. It’s fast, but not too fast. Just a little nervous by the sounds of it; quickened, but not pounding like his own. 

That calms him a lot more than he thought it would. Because if Stiles isn’t freaking out, then maybe he shouldn’t either. Maybe he should try and be more like him sometimes. Stiles is scatty, jumpy, nervous and excitable, but when it counts, when it _really_ counts, Derek knows he’s a lot calmer than he lets on. Derek would trust him with his life in a crisis, and that’s something he never thought he’d ever say again. Not after his family died. 

 

That’s the thought he keeps hold of while he waits, nervous as hell and shaking like a leaf. He’s here for Stiles, to keep him safe. And that’s more than enough to get him through when he’s called into the court room. 

 

**Stiles**

When Derek had told him about the trail, he was nervous. He looked liked he hadn’t slept, he refused coffee, even though it’s practically a necessity for him in the morning, and his face was a shade of green Stiles has only ever seen at the hospital. Even if he hadn’t told him, Stiles would probably have guessed something was wrong.   
 ****

Now, though, it’s like Stiles can _feel_ the panic rolling off him, little sparks of electricity jumping off his skin every minute or so. 

Not that Stiles is anywhere near Derek. He’s all the way across town, and Stiles is here, in the coffee shop. But somehow, Stiles just _knows_ it’s Derek making him feel like this. Because who else could it be? He’s seen too much to try and play it off as something else. This is Derek he’s talking about. Nothing between them has ever been normal. He’d be stupid to be pretend otherwise. 

 

‘Can you feel it?’ Stiles asks Scott after a particularly bad burst of anxiety. Scott frowns at him.

‘Feel what?’

‘That nervous energy. Is it Derek? Should we be worried?’

 

Scott gives him a long look, his face suddenly more guarded than Stiles has ever seen it. Like he’s not telling him something. It makes him feel like he shouldn’t have asked at all. 

‘Sorry,’ he adds, shaking his head. ‘I shouldn’t have…’

‘No, bro, don’t be stupid,’ Scott says, waving a hand dismissively. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘What about?’

Scott smiles, ‘It’s just, I always know how Derek’s feeling in some way or another. That’s kind of how it works. We’re receptive to out Alpha’s emotions.’

Stiles bites his bottom lip. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s a but at the end of that sentence?’

Scott laughs, ruffles his hair affectionately. ‘Because none of the other humans in the pack can feel it. Just you. I don’t know why, but you’re special. You and Derek, you have something. Don’t be scared of it. It could save you one day.’

‘You think?’ Stiles asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. Scott laughs, turns back towards the supply cupboard.

‘I don’t just think,’ he says. ‘I know.’

 

**Derek**

The courtroom always looks smaller when you’re in it. The walls seem closer, everything feels more immediate, claustrophobic. By the time Derek steps into the room, he’s on the verge of losing it.   
 ****

Sweat rolls down his back as he walks up to the witness stand, his hands clenched to stop them from trembling. 

He tries to get angry, to anchor himself, but it doesn’t work. Somehow, the anger that usually grounds him feels overwhelming, powerful, separate. He thinks back to the fight with Scott, how angry he’d been, how out of control he was. 

He thinks about Stiles, how he’d said the one thing that he knew would bring Derek back.

_'You’re not a monster, Derek.’_

_'You’re not a monster, Derek.’_

_'You’re not a monster, Derek.’_

 

He plays it over in his mind until he believes it, until he can focus on Stiles’ heartbeat again, slow and regular and soft. 

He plays it until it’s the only thing he can hear, until the only monsters he can find are the ones he’s trying to stop. 

 

His mind wonders back to the conversation they’d had in the car, when Stiles had asked him if he was scared of them. 

He didn’t have a reply back then; not one worth his time. But now he knows the answer. Now he knows what he’s afraid of. 

He’s not scared of the monsters. He’s scared of what they can do. And all he can think as he turns to face the jury is seeing Stiles, shadows reflecting in the soft lines of his face, wanting to say it, wanting for him to know. 

 

He closes his eyes for half a second, lets all of this wash over him until it’s just them, driving along past the forest, Derek leaning over to take his hand as he whispers softly across his knuckles.

‘ _I’m scared of losing you._ ’ 

 

**Stiles**

‘I’m gonna die,’ he says, pressing his face into the counter. ‘If he doesn’t come out soon, I’m gonna die.’  
 ****

‘Alright prima donna,’ Scott laughs, throwing a dish towel at him. ‘Enough with the dramatics. You want me to call Isaac?’

‘If you call Isaac, I’ll personally shove his stethoscope straight up your ass.’

‘Oh, not very friendly,’ Scott says, joining him at the counter. Stiles sighs.

‘Scott, buddy, I love you, but I’m not in the mood for jokes.’

‘I get it,’ Scott says deliberately, picking up the discarded dish towel. ‘You need a distraction.’

‘I need a what-?’

 

In the split second it takes Stiles to look up, Scott’s already on him. Dishtowel in hand, Scott starts flicking it in Stiles’ direction, making it snap against his legs relentlessly.

‘ _Ohmygod,_ Scott, piss off!’ Stiles squeals, trying to run away from him in the tiny space behind the counter. ‘Seriously, dude, stop it! I can’t handle-‘

 

It’s like someone’s hit him over the head. All at once, a sudden rushing feeling swoops over Stiles, so strong, it makes him dizzy, sapping the strength out of him.

‘Stiles!’ Scott yelps, catching him before he falls. ‘Stiles are you okay? Talk to me, buddy.’

‘Derek,’ Stiles murmurs, propping himself up on the floor, where Scott lowered him. ‘Something- something happened. At the trial.’

‘Something good or something bad?’ Scott asks, his face white. Stiles shakes his head.

‘Good, I think. It’s weird. I think he’s relieved about something. But he’s nervous, or tired, I can’t really tell. I literally don’t even…’

He trails off, head spinning like he just sprinted five miles. His chest feels light, but also tight, like there’s a little coil of balled up energy sat somewhere just under his heart. It’s literally the weirdest sensation he’s ever felt in his entire life. 

   

‘Scott, what the hell’s going on?’ he murmurs, gesturing his chest. ‘Why can I… why can I feel it?’

Scott stares at him, concern etched across his face. Slowly, he shakes his head, pulls Stiles into a hug that seems to say, ‘ _it’s okay,’_ and _‘I’m sorry,’_ all at once. 

His voice is heavy when he replies, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like that before.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ Stiles murmurs into his chest. ‘I’m okay. Don’t worry about it.’

 

Scott pulls away, gives a look that his dad sometimes has when he says something stupid, then tells him to stay on the floor while he gets an ice pack and some aspirin. 

‘How’d you know I need an aspirin?’ Stiles asks wearily, eyes following Scott to the first aid box.

‘Because I felt something too, but I couldn’t work out what it meant. _I_ have a headache and I barely felt a thing. You just nearly passed out on me. Your face alone tells me all I need to know.’

‘Doesn’t hurt that bad,’ Stiles protests. ‘Just a kind of… dull ache.’

‘I got ya,’ Scott says, sitting down beside him. He rubs his hands in circles across Stiles’ back, and _oh…_

‘You got magic healing hands or something?’ Stiles asks as the pain melts away completely. Scott laughs.

‘Something like that.’

 

Stiles wants to ask what he means by that, but everything’s too calm, too soft around the edges. He wants to say thank you, to say something to make up for all the stuff Scott puts up with. But with Scott’s hand on his back, all he can feel is peaceful. And right now, that’s enough for him. 

 

**Derek**

He bolts from the building the moment the verdict’s called out. He came in the police cruiser with John, but he knows he can’t face sitting in there, no with all the energy crashing through him.   
 ****

He makes it to the coffee shop in under ten minutes, which is impressive, even for him, and slams into the door with so much force, the welcome bell flies halfway across the room. 

Scott and Stiles look up from behind the counter, Stiles’ heartbeat in time with his own as Scott’s eyes flash gold.

For a moment, Derek’s confused. There’s such a strong air of hostility around Scott, he almost loses his scent from it, shielding Stiles from the door with his arm. It dies down when he sees Derek, though, and his eyes go back to their usual brown. 

   

‘What’s going on?’ Derek asks, noticing the slightly metallic scent of pain. ‘What happened?’

‘We could ask you the same thing!’ Scott says, vaulting over the counter. ‘You nearly broke my damn door off!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Derek says, chest still heaving from the run. ‘It’s just… Stiles… it’s over.’

Stiles frowns, glances at Scott who looks equally confused. Derek takes the second to catch a breath, pulls himself together. 

‘Over?’ Stiles asks timidly. ‘What’d you mean, it’s over?’

‘I mean it’s over,’ Derek says, feeling the smile spread to his chest. 

‘It’s over. Stiles, we won!’

 

**Stiles**

 

Two hours later, and it still doesn’t seem real.   
 ****

It’s over.

Amy’s in prison. 

He’s free.

 

They’d sat in the coffee shop ever since Derek arrived, waiting for everyone to calm down. 

When Stiles had found out, he’d almost fainted. _A_ _gain._  Scott flailed so hard with excitement he broke three mugs, and Derek looked like he just wanted to curl into a ball and sleep. 

So that’s what they did. 

Scott closed the shop for the rest of the day, waved a dismissive hand when Stiles said he didn’t have to. Derek fell asleep almost instantly, curled up under a blanket under the counter. In his sleep, he reached out and liked their fingers together, pulled Stiles a little closer than he was before. Scott didn’t say anything. Stiles did noting to let go. 

 

Eventually, Scott packed them all into his car and drove back to Derek’s place, where they all stumbled silently up the stairs, none of them quite knowing what to say.

Stiles knows things are calming down when Scott visibly relaxes next to him, his eyes lighting up significantly as they approach the door. 

 

‘You got a friend waiting in there or something?’ Stiles jokes, elbowing him softly in the ribs. Scott smiles, but nods. 

‘Allison,’ he manages to get out before Derek opens the door. Scott bolts inside before he’s even pulled the key out, running straight into the arms of a beautiful girl with long hair and large, dark eyes. Stiles doesn’t know her, but if she makes him that happy, that’s all that matters to him. 

 

He’s about to go and introduce himself, but before he can take a step, he’s hit side-on by a mass of blonde curls and leather, almost toppling backwards into Derek, who catches them both. 

‘I knew it’d be okay,’ Erica whispers in his ear. ‘I knew it.’

‘Thanks, Erica,’ Stiles breaths into her hair, inhaling the smell of perfume and shampoo. 

‘We all knew,’ Isaac said, moving over to take her place. ‘Proud of you, buddy.’

Stiles smiles. ‘Looks like you won’t have to patch me up any more.’

Isaac claps him on the back. ‘Trust me, that’s not a bad thing.’

 

More people try and talk to him, but Stiles can barely hear any of them. He’s suddenly exhausted, dizzy and disorientated, none of his thoughts quite adding up. 

Slowly, he drags himself over to the sofa, where, incredibly, the pillow fort is still standing, and drops down on one of the cushions, closing his eyes against the light that’s a little too bright. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind he feels someone join him, but he’s too tired to figure out who. Before he can think about anything else, he’s fast asleep. 

 

*

When Stiles wakes up, someone’s poking his cheek. 

 

He startles, jerks backwards, dislodging Scott, who tumbles off the cushion they’re on, lands gracefully on his face.

‘Duuuuuude,’ he groans, rolling onto his back, clutching his forehead where it hit the floor. 

Stiles winces, gives him a hand back up. ‘Sorry bro, didn’t see you there.’

Scott flops back onto him, squashes him into the cushion. 

‘What happened?’ he mumbles sleepily. ‘You have a nightmare or something?’

‘No,’ Stiles yawns, shaking his head. ‘There was…’

 

Stiles trails off as his eyes travel upwards. 

‘Hi,’ he says to the little boy in front of him, the same one from the picture in Derek’s office. 

‘Who are you?’ the kid asks, tilting his head to consider Stiles, mouth hanging open slightly at one side. 

Before Stiles can answer, Scott laughs, rolls onto the floor and jumps to his feet, scoops the kid into his arms. 

‘Ben, this is Stiles,’ he says happily, swinging him onto his back. ‘He’s our new friend. You wanna teach him our secret handshake? He doesn’t know it yet.’

 

Ben eyes Stiles warily from behind Scott’s shoulder, then slides off his back and plops down in the spot Scott just vacated, gestures for Stiles to sit up. Once in the correct position, Ben looks Stiles dead in the eyes, like what he’s saying is the most serious thing in the entire world.

‘This is super special secret,’ he whispers, glancing outside the still, incredibly, stable pillow fort.    ‘Uncle Derek doesn’t even know it.’

Stiles nods, shuffles in a little closer. ‘Okay, I promise I won’t tell. Not even Uncle Derek.’

‘ _Especially_ not Uncle Derek,’ Scott grins, sitting next to Stiles. ‘What did he say about our super special secret handshake, Ben?’

‘He said it was silly.’

Stiles gasps dramatically, gestures for Ben to come closer. ‘You know what else is silly?’

Ben shakes his head. 

‘Uncle Derek.’ 

   

Stiles grins as Ben erupts into fits of giggles, rolls back into a little shaking ball of happiness. Stiles thinks he might be his favourite person in the whole world. 

‘Show him the handshake, Ben,’ Scott laughs along with them. ‘And then he can be our bro for life.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Ben says, snapping himself out of it. He sits up seriously, takes a deep breath. 

‘Okay, you do high five,’ he raises his hand for Stiles to hit. ‘Then low five, then middle five.’

Stiles follows along nodding the whole way, watches as Ben curls his hand into a little fist.

‘Now fist bump,’ he says, bumping his knuckles against Stiles’. ‘And then you _explode it,’_ he ends dramatically, flinging his arm back in what Stiles imagines will be a kick-ass move when co-ordinated properly. 

Stiles hums, scratches his chin. ‘Alright. I think I got it. You wanna do it again? Just in case?’

Ben nods enthusiastically, then does it again. When they’re done, he jumps to his feet and scampers away, leaving Stiles to stare after him, open mouthed and a little dazed.

 

‘Am I still dreaming? Is that what just happened?’

Scott laughs, pushes him affectionately. ‘Nah, dude. That’s Ben, Rachel’s brother. He’s literally the light of our lives.’

‘Yeah, I got that impression,’ Stiles smiles, tucking himself under a blanket, ‘what with the ‘super special secret’ handshakes and the piggy back rides.’

Stiles sighs wistfully, rests his hands on the back on his hand. 

‘I always wanted a little brother,’ he says quietly. ‘Or sister. I’m pretty good at hair braiding. Lydia made me practise on her when she was studying. Said it helped her relax.’

 

Stiles goes quiet for a minute, remembers the time before he’d met Amy, when he used to sit in Lydia’s dorm room with her, reading, studying, _laughing_. That’s how he wants to remember college; just Lydia, friends and the occasional hangover. He wants to get to the stage where he doesn’t think of Amy, where he doesn’t flinch at the thought. 

He wants to be free, and he’s so close to it. It’s like he can see the finish line, but he’s still reaching for it, not quite there. Stiles hopes he gets there soon. Because if it’s always like this on the other side, he reckons things will turn out okay after all.

 

**Derek**

 

 

 

 

Everyone stays in the kitchen until Scott and Stiles wake up, then everyone gathers back into the living room to watch a movie. 

All the nervous energy’s gone now, replaced by complete exhaustion. Even Ben looks sleepy, curled up in Rachel’s lap, Isaac carding his hands through his hair. It’s nice, peaceful, a good change after the stress of the day. 

   

It still hasn’t set in yet, the fact that they won. It still doesn’t seem real that weeks of work and pain and suffering have led them here, to normality. It’s weird. Derek never thought they’d get back to that. 

 

‘Jesus Christ, we’re not watching that film _again,_ are we?’

‘Yes, numb nuts, we’re watching it again.’

‘Cold you try not to teach Ben your crazy insults, just this once?’

‘They’re not crazy! They’re inventive!’

‘They’re stupid!’

‘You’re stupid!’

 

Derek sighs. Yep, back to normality. 

‘Guys, can we please stop talking for like, five minutes. I want to enjoy the company of my family without wanting to strangle you all.’

‘Rude,’ Erica says, sitting on his feet. ‘I wasn’t even talking.’

‘No, but you were laughing,’ Derek says, wiggling her into a more comfortable position. ‘That’s just as bad.’

 ‘Derek, if the sound of _laughter-‘_

 

Erica’s cut off as the front door bursts open, followed by Lydia, looking tired and harassed, but smiling nonetheless. 

‘I brought champagne,’ she says, staggering to shut the door. ‘You know, to celebrate.’

‘Lydia, I love you so much right now,’ Scott says, jumping to his feet to take the bottle from her. ‘In fact, I love you so much, you can have my chair.’

‘Thanks, Scott,’ she says gratefully, sinking into the chair. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘That’s alright, Lyds,’ Stiles says from the other couch. ‘Rough day?’

‘Don’t get me started,’ she sighs, pushing her hair away from her face. ‘This internship I’m doing is awful. I don’t know how I’m gonna get _anywhere_ with it.’

‘Where’re you doing your internship at?’ Rachel asks softly, rubbing Ben’s arm. 

‘At this tiny boutique down the street,’ Lydia says, dejectedly. ‘I want to get experience in designing, but they won’t even let me near. They keep sticking me behind the till.’

‘You’re into designing?’ Rachel asks, suddenly a little more awake. ‘I have my own label. I was going to hire someone to be my assistant for a few months. I’ve got a show coming up and I need all the help I can get. Would you be interested?’

 

Lydia looks from Rachel, to Derek, to Stiles and then back to Rachel, her mouth hanging open in shock. Derek thinks she looks funny, from the way Stiles is looking at her, he finds it adorable. 

‘Yes. Oh my god, yes. I would love to. Are you sure?’

Rachel laughs, makes Ben bounce a little on her lap. ‘Of course! You look like you know what you’re doing.’

‘Brightest girl at our college,’ Stiles adds with a smile. Derek shuffles a little closer to him. 

‘Thank you,’ Lydia says sweetly, beaming at Rachel. ‘And I can advertise your line on my blog! My readers would love it, I’m sure.’

‘You blog?’ Rachel says, jostling Ben so much he jumps onto Isaac’s lap instead with an annoyed little grumble. ‘Me too! We should do a collab…’

 

Derek zones out, content to just sit and watch the TV with Stiles nestled in his side, listening to him occasionally laugh at the movie, but always a little too tired to do anything more. 

Derek likes to watch the way his eyes droop steadily throughout the evening, likes how Stiles puts more and more weight onto him as he gets tired. If Derek’s honest, it probably comforts him more than it comforts Stiles. 

 

Eventually, everyone starts to leave, Boyd and Erica catching a ride with Isaac, Scott following closely behind. Lydia goes up to her apartment not long after, leaving just the four of them, chilled out on the couch, watching something crappy off Netflix.

Derek’s phone rings half way through the movie, chiming a bit too loudly for the surroundings. He pulls it out of his pocket, sees John’s number flash up on the screen. 

_Can you and Stiles come over? I have something to show you._

 

‘Your dad wants us to go to your place,’ Derek mutters to Stiles, who’s already half asleep. 

‘What?’ he says, jerking awake. ‘Why?’

Derek shrugs. ‘Says he wants to show us something.’

‘Okay,’ Stiles murmurs sleepily. ‘I’ll grab my shoes.’

 

Derek watches him go, grabs his jacket from the arm of the chair. There’s still a weird scent coming off Stiles; like confusion, or sickness, or _something_. Derek cant figure out what it is right now. It’s annoying, but not as annoying as the little nagging twinge in the pit of his stomach that’s making him on-edge, waspish, irritable. He puts it down to tiredness when Stiles returns looking exactly the same. 

They walk down to the car in silence, both of them not quite sure what to say. Because for all their work, he thought winning would feel better than this. But it just feels kind of numb right now, like he doesn’t know where to place it. 

He hopes the feeling doesn’t last. He’s not used to feeling uncertain, and at the moment, there’s far too much of it going around.

He's ready for change. He just hopes it happens soon.

 

**Stiles**

It’s cold out. A lot colder than it has been recently. Stiles has to tug his jacket around him as they walk to the car, shivers slightly under the thin material.   
 ****

‘You alright?’ Derek asks when he slides into the front seat, pulling his seatbelt across him.

‘Fine,’ Stiles replies, yawning a little. ‘You?’

Derek nods, starts the car. ‘Great. Just wanna know why your dad wants to see us so late.’

‘Knowing him it’s probably a surprise or something.’ Stiles says, rubbing his hands together. Derek laughs.

‘You like surprises?’

Stiles snorts. ‘Not really.’

 

The rest of the journey’s relatively quite, both of them just happy to be in each other’s company, that feeling of safety starting to set in. 

He’s safe. 

She’s gone. 

It’s over. 

 

He repeats that to himself all the way home, plays it over in his mind until he believes it, until he can feel the warmth run down his spine, constant, reassuring, calming. 

 He repeats it until he’s sure he can feel another heartbeat drum faintly in the back of his mind, until the sound of it makes everything else melt away. 

 

He goes back to the conversation they’d had last time they drove this way, when he’d asked Derek if he was scared of monsters. 

He’d meant it as a joke back then; hadn’t really thought about why he said it. But now he knows why. Now he knows what he meant.

He wanted to think that monsters were something in books and fantasy, made up; only drawn, never seen. He wanted to believe that the darkness was as easy as the light, wanted to believe that good could come from pain. 

And now all he can think as they drive along is seeing Derek, mouth curved up in a smile, teeth dragging across his bottom lip, wishing he had the courage to believe in him, too.

 

**Derek**

The house is quiet when they arrive, little lights blinking through cracks in the curtains.   
 ****

Derek’s phone buzzes the moment they arrive, showing John’s number again. He pauses, turns off the engine, looks down at it.

_Tell Stiles to stay in the car a minute. I want to talk to you first._

 

‘Your dad wants to you to wait in the car,’ Derek sighs, unclipping his seatbelt. ‘You okay with that?’

‘I told you,’ Stiles says, rolling his eyes, grinning, ‘total surprise.’

Derek laughs, pulls his jacket off, throws it in the backseat. ‘So you’re alright if I go in first?’

Stiles snorts. ‘Yes, Derek. I’m perfectly fine sitting outside my _own house_.’

‘I was just asking,’ Derek grumbles. Stiles laughs.

‘You’re such a dork.’

‘Says you.’

‘Yes says me,’ Stiles grins, pointing at the door. ‘Now get your sorry butt in there before I die of boredom.’

 

Shaking his head, Derek gets out the car, makes his way to the front door, head full of Stiles; his scent, his eyes, his smile. It’s like a drug he can’t get enough of, completely overwhelming him. 

 He tries not to look back, but he can’t help it. He glances over his shoulder, chuckles as Stiles makes a sweeping motion with his hands. Derek doesn’t look back again.

 

He knocks on the door, but it swings open at his touch, leading into the empty hallway. 

‘John?’ Derek says, stepping quietly past the living room. ‘You here?’

He glances behind him for a split second as he walks into the living room, checking the front door’s closed before he turns around. 

 

‘What the?’ 

The room’s light, but full of smoke, white and pearly like mist off the sea. Derek takes two breaths before he realises what it is, and by then it’s too late. 

His eyes fall out of focus as he hits the floor, his legs bucking involuntarily beneath him. He wants to call out, to warn Stiles,  tell him to run, but his head feels slow, lethargic, like even thinking is too much trouble. His limbs get heavy as his face hits the carpet, his body slumped there uselessly. 

 Derek only has a few seconds to see the dark figure standing over him before his eyes close, and he finally, blacks out.

 

**Stiles**   
****

 

Stiles waits in the car five whole minutes before he decides to go in, surprise be damned. 

   

Too cold to dawdle, he makes straight for the front door, which Derek conveniently left unlocked, and barrels inside, kicks it shut with his foot. 

‘Derek?’ he calls, moving down the hall, discarding his jacket in the warmth. ‘You guys fall asleep or something?’

 Nothing. 

 Stiles frowns, pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘Dad?’ 

 Nothing. 

 

‘Come on, guys. You know I hate it when you pull shit like this on me.’

He glances at the kitchen table, at the half finished bottle of beer left next to the paper. Stiles thumbs through it, notices his dad hasn’t even got to the sport section yet. That’s weird; he _always_ reads the sports section. It’s pretty much tradition in this house. And he definitely never leaves a beer half finished. 

   

Stiles bites his cheek, determined not to freak out. There’s an explanation for this. There’s always an explanation to something. He just has to figure it out, approach the situation logically and come up with the best possible conclusion. 

They’re not upstairs because the lights are out. They’re not in the kitchen, obviously, and they’re not in the garden. That just leaves the living room. 

Stiles scrunches his face up. He walked past the living room to get here, and he hadn’t heard a thing. They must be hiding from him. Fucking idiots. 

 

Deciding it’s best to get it over with, Stiles shakes his head, blinks a little to wake himself up, then walks towards the living room door, pushes it open soundlessly.

‘Okay, guys, you can come out-‘

 

It’s like everything moves in slow motion. 

As soon as he opens the door, he sees his dad, unconscious and tied up on the floor, the carpet thick with blood from a cut he can’t see. He sees Derek, lying in a heap beside him, barely breathing by the look of it, his face completely white. Then he sees the the glint of metal, the barrel of the gun, the impossibly steady hand behind it, before the owner says,

‘Hello, Stiles. Looks like we have a lot to talk about.’

 


	13. Stay Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s terrified, delirious, falling to pieces, but knowing Stiles is here, knowing he’s still alive, it’s all he needs to hold himself together. 
> 
> It’s all he needs to stay human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooo my wonderful, beautiful readers!! Hope you're having a lovely day. You're all making me smile a lot with your amazing comments on this. I can't believe you like it so much! I hope this chapter makes up for my kinda slow update :*
> 
> If you wanna talk to me, leave me a message, and I'll reply. Otherwise, ENJOY!
> 
> (p.s. sorry of there's any 'oopsies.' I've read it through a million times, so I hope it's okay!)

**Stiles**

****‘What do you want?’

 

Stiles stands still, eyes never moving from the barrel of the gun. His heart’s pounding, banging out an irregular rhythm in his chest, but he’s oddly calm. He’s scared, terrified, but he’s calm. He doesn’t move until Matt speaks again.

 

‘Don’t you think that’s a little rude?’ Matt says, cocking his head slightly to the left. Stiles huffs out a humourless laugh, then shrugs his shoulders deliberately.  

‘You tell me. You’re the one holding the gun.’

Matt hums in consideration, curls his finger round the trigger, squeezes gently. 

‘Very astute, Stiles,’ he says, rolling back onto his heels. ‘But I’d watch out. Keep talking to me like that and you won’t like where you end up.’

 

He walks over to where Derek’s lying, unconscious on the floor, kicks him gently with his shoe. 

‘Your new boyfriend wouldn’t look so pretty with a bullet in his head now, would he?’

‘Leave him alone, Matt,’ Stiles growls, his hands curling into fists at his side. ‘He’s got nothing to do with this.’

Matt laughs, and drops his hand. For a second, the tight feeling in Stiles’ chest disintegrates down to a low throb at the base of his spine. 

But as soon as the feeling dissolves, it comes back ten times stronger. 

   

Matt points the gun downwards, straight at Derek’s head, eyes full of malice. 

‘I’m not going to tell you again, Stiles,’ he says slowly. ‘You keep talking to me like that, and I will shoot them. Both of them.’

 

Stiles can feel his resolve slipping away, can feel the urge to run, cry, beg at his feet, come crawling back into every fibre of his being. He can’t let Derek die, that’s all he knows for sure. And if he keeps on like this, that’s what’s going to happen. 

Slowly, he raises his hands to shoulder height, takes half a step backwards.

‘Okay, Matt. You came for me, right? You want me?’ 

He pauses, takes a deep rattling breath that seems to shudder his entire body before he adds, ‘So whatever you’re gonna do…. whatever it is you… just, leave them out of it, please.’

 

‘Already begging,’ Matt sneers from across the room. ‘That’s a little impressive, even for you, Stiles.’

He takes three steps forwards, closes the gap between them. From here, Stiles can see the shadows under his eyes, the crazed look about his face. It doesn’t take a werewolf to smell the power, the hunger on him. It’s like he’s drowning in it, the feeling hitting Stiles in waves. It’s unrelenting, furious, deadly. It terrifies him. 

 

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Stiles manages to say, his hands shaking so hard, he can barely move them. Matt tilts his head. 

‘Oh, but I do,’ he says, keeping the gun pointed firmly at Derek. ‘Because, unlike you, Stiles, I care about my family. I’ll do anything to stop them getting hurt. Even if it means killing a few insignificant kids along the way.’

 

Stiles opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes is a pained gasp as electricity shoots through his body. It pulses through him, alive, burning, unrelenting. It keeps going until his body feels like lead, and he sinks to the floor, no longer in control. 

From his position on the floor, he sees Matt loom over him, his face cast in strange shadows thrown by the light behind him. 

‘Useful thing, breaking into the Sheriff’s house,’ he says, rolling the stun gun through his hands. ‘So many toys to play with.’

‘Matt, please, stop.’

‘You should really stop begging, Stiles,’ Matt says, grabbing a bag from the floor. ‘It’s getting kind of pathetic.’

 

He reaches into the bag, pulls out a hypodermic needle, tapping the contents gently with his nail, smiling in a satisfied kind of way.

‘This should shut you up.’

‘Wait, what is that?’ Stiles chokes, tears already burning his eyes. ‘Is that a sedative? Matt, you don’t understand… you can’t… Matt! Stop!’

 

He tries to get away, but his body no longer belongs to him. He barely feels the needle as it pricks somewhere on his thigh. He just gets a slowly sinking sensation, like he’s getting deeper underwater, the edges of his vision fading into black as he’s dragged, agonisingly slowly, into a sleep he never meant to fall into.  

 

 

*

 

 

‘Stiles? Stiles, please wake up. Come on, Stiles. You have to wake up.’

 

The voice comes to him from somewhere far away, hushed, whispered, like it doesn’t want to be heard out loud. 

There’s something in Stiles that recognises the voice; something deep at the base of his spine, tingling upwards through his body to his head, where it nestles, warming him, calming him.

‘Derek,’ he mutters, though he’s not entirely sure why. Something inside him feels right, hearing the voice, even though he should be terrified. He _is_ terrified. But somehow the voice cuts through that, gets right to the core of him, keeping the darkness at bay.

‘I’m right here, Stiles. You’ve got to open your eyes. Come on.’

Vaguely, he feels something grab his hand, squeeze it tightly. His skin warms at the touch, little spots of electricity running up his arm, and _oh…_

 

‘Derek!’

He sits up so fast, his head starts to swim, the world spinning around him sickeningly. Stiles closes his eyes, drops his head into his hands until everything stills, the darkness not dotted with little spots of white anymore. 

He feels heavy, like he’s been asleep for years, his arms and legs not working how he wants them too. 

He tries to get up, to find a door, but he’s stopped, pulled down by someone much bigger than he is.

 

‘Derek,’ Stiles mumbles again, dropping heavily to the floor. ‘I have to find Derek… and my dad…’

He feels something grip his shoulders, pull him gently to the right, turning him to sit against the wall.

‘It’s okay, Stiles. I’m right here. I’m alright. Calm down.’

Leaning his head back against the bricks, Stiles takes a few deep breaths, lets his head clear for a moment. 

He’s in a room, somewhere quiet, dark, only the cracks round the door letting in any light. There’s  a distinct smell in the room, like burning, ash, moss. There’s something damp scattered across the floor, and if he looks hard enough, he can see the faint outline of boxes piled up in one corner. 

   

‘Stiles? Can you hear me?’

Derek’s voice. That’s definitely Derek’s voice in his ear. 

Slowly, Stiles reaches out, his hand finding the loose bit of his shirt. He curls his fist in it, determined not to let go. 

‘Derek?’ he asks quietly. ‘Is that you?’

‘It’s me,’ his voice sounds from somewhere above him. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’

‘Matt,’ Stiles murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. ‘It’s Matt. He used my dad’s stun gun.’

He gestures to the still tender skin on his side, oblivious as to whether Derek can see it or not. ‘Knocked me out.’

‘Does it hurt?’ Derek asks, wrapping their hands together. Stiles shrugs.

‘A bit.’

‘Here, let me help.’

 

Almost at once, Stiles’ hands begin to tingle, his entire body relaxing, the pain in his side literally sucked out of him in a matter of seconds. 

Stiles gasps, pulls his hand away, stares down at it, even though he can’t see.

‘What was that?’ he asks, balling his hands into fists. 

‘I took your pain,’ Derek replies softly, taking his hand again. ‘Comes in handy, doesn’t it?’

‘But doesn’t it hurt you?’ 

‘Not a lot,’ Derek says. ‘It’s more like being hungover.’

Stiles squeezes Derek’s fingers, slumps his head against his shoulder. 

‘Don’t do it again,’ he says, running his thumb along Derek’s wrist. ‘I can handle it. You’re more important.’

   

He closes his eyes, doesn’t stay awake long enough to hear Derek’s reply. Because between the sedative, werewolf morphine and the darkness, Stiles can’t help but let himself slip away again, hoping that when he wakes up, things might be a little brighter.

 

 

**Derek**

****_‘You’re more important.’_

 

 

Derek listens as Stiles’ heartbeat slows to a steady rhythm, overcome by exhaustion, pain, and whatever the hell Matt gave him. 

 

His hand stays clasped in Derek’s while he sleeps, though it’s not holding on like it was, his thumb still against the palm of his hand. 

It’s comforting, soft, reassuring. When Derek had woken up, he’d been confused. He’d smelt pack, and ash and loss. He’d _felt_ Stiles. It was like there was a magnetic pull towards him, stopping the feeling of complete, crushing fear from taking over. 

It stopped him falling apart completely. 

 

_‘You’re more important.’_

 

Derek knows he’s weak. His limbs feel heavy in their sockets, pulling limply against his side as he drops them to the floor. 

The wolfsbane Matt used is still affecting him in some way, making his vision slightly blurred around the edges, keeping his mind a little fuzzy. He closes his eyes, hoping it’ll dull the pain building behind his eyebrows, but all it does is make everything seem closer, darker, terrifying. 

He hopes Stiles can’t feel his hands shaking. 

 

_‘You’re more important.’_

 

He tries not to let the pull of sleep drag him under, tries to keep himself as awake as possible. He can’t sleep, can’t leave them so vulnerable.

_Stay awake, Derek._

 

His eyes get heavy, dragging his head along with them until it’s lolling against his chest, too exhausted to stay up. 

   

_Stay awake…_

 

Shoulders heavy, Derek slumps forwards, exhaustion finally kicking in, fast and heavy, making even breathing difficult. 

He focuses on holding Stiles’ hand, on fixing his scent in the room, which is overpowering given that he can’t see. He finds the scent of his clothes, the slightly musky sharpness of his fabric softener, the smell of safety, of comfort, of _pack._

He remembers the feel of his hand, how it curls gently in his own, how his fingers tangle loosely in the gaps his can’t fill. 

He remembers what it’s like to fall asleep next to him.

 

_‘You’re more important.’_

 

Stiles twitches next to him, drops his head onto Derek’s arm, his cheek pressing gently against the sleeve of his shirt. 

Not even the feeling of his skin catching fire is enough to bring him round. 

 

_Stay… awake…_

 

Stuck in a kind of limbo, Derek goes back to the conversation they'd had the day after they met, about Kate, about his family. 

That same emptiness, that same hopeless longing engulfs him again. He smells the smoke, but this time it’s not in his head. It’s all around him, covering his skin, his clothes, his hair. He tries to breathe, but it’s impossible. 

 

_‘You’re more important.’_

 

Stiles was wrong. Stiles was completely, totally wrong. 

He’s not more important. He’s not better, smarter, stronger, more in control than him. 

He’s just trying to keep anyone else from dying.

   

_Stay… awake…_

 

White lights dance across the darkness, spinning and churning and changing. 

He tries to shake them off, but his head won’t move. 

 

_‘You’re not a monster. You’re a human being.’_

 

Derek’s hand goes slack in Stiles’, lying limp against the cold floor. His muscles are heavy, his heart’s pounding, his skin feels electric. 

   

Finally, blissfully, he lets himself slip away, lets his mind still, his eyes get heavy. He lets himself curl into Stiles, keeping him safe, protecting him from the outside. 

   

Eventually, he falls asleep, head nuzzled in the crook of Stiles’ neck, feeling more human than he’s ever felt before. He’s terrified, delirious, but incredibly, unbelievably, finally still. 

 

 

**Stiles**

 Stiles jerks awake, the room spinning dangerously behind his eyelids. 

 

‘Hey. It’s okay. I’m here.’

It takes a second for the feel of Derek to come back to him, imprinted on his skin like it’s his own, fitting perfectly against the places Stiles can’t reach. Their hands are still tangled together, Derek’s nail rubbing softly against the inside of his thumb. 

If Stiles concentrates hard enough, he could be back on the couch with him, watching a crappy film that neither of them have any interest in, content to listen to each other’s breathing steadily even out across the hours. 

 

‘’M sorry,’ he mutters, leaning into Derek’s space. ‘I was just…’

‘It’s okay,’ Derek says again, tucking Stiles under his arm. ‘It was just a dream.’

Stiles laughs dryly, eyes flickering around the darkness. ‘Yeah, and it feels like I’ve stepped into a freaking nightmare.’

 

Stiles thinks Derek’s about to reply, but that’s before his whole body tenses, his hand squeezing Stiles’ so tightly, it starts to hurt. 

‘Derek?’ he whispers, inadvertently leaning in a bit further. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Stay down,’ Derek whispers, pushing Stiles to the right. ‘And keep quiet.’

   

Stiles does as he’s told, crouching low behind what feels like a pile of damp cardboard boxes, the soggy ridges a poor replacement for Derek’s hand, the feeling of which is still imprinted against his palm. 

Derek moves somewhere in the room, his feet shuffling against the floor as a different set of footsteps get louder from somewhere outside. 

‘Derek-?’

‘Stiles, please,’ Derek whispers, further away than last time. ‘Don’t do anything.’

He nods, but then remembers that Derek probably can’t see him, so he stays quiet, tucks himself further behind the boxes, tries not to gag on the smell. 

 

Then a lot of things happen very quickly. 

 

The door flies open, crashing against the wall so hard, Stiles has to bite back a scream. A light flickers into life above them, flooding the room, burning his eyes so much he has to squeeze them shut, dig his fists into them to try and ease the pain. 

The hum of electricity fills the room, vibrating through the air like lighting, sending shivers up Stiles’ spine. 

His heart beats a hundred times a minute, thudding relentlessly against his chest, pounding through every fibre of his body. 

His head swims for the second time. 

He holds the boxes a little tighter. 

 

Derek screams. 

 

It’s like someone’s stuck red hot iron against his skin; a flash of pain bubbling under the surface, making everything else less important. 

Eyes streaming, he staggers out from behind the boxes, blinking as fast as he can, still gripping the boxes with a free hand. 

 

Derek’s on the floor, trying to hold himself up against the wall. But every time he tries to stand, someone hits him with a metal rod, cracking electricity from nowhere, sending him crashing back to the floor again. 

 

‘Stop! Matt, stop!’

Stiles runs forward, tries to get to Derek, but he’s stopped, pinned down by two men he’s never seen before, his hands trapped painfully behind his back. 

He struggles, kicks his legs out, tries to get away, but he’s hit with one of the rods before he can do anything, and this time, he can’t bite back the scream that escapes him. 

 

‘No!’

Derek’s voice rings loud around the room, despite the fact it looks like he’s about to collapse. He staggers to his feet, chest heaving raggedly, clutching the wall for support. 

‘Don’t hurt him,’ he says through breaths. ‘Don’t… don’t touch him.’

‘My, my, Derek,’ Matt says swinging the rod round lazily in his hand. ‘Isn’t this a strange turn of events. An Alpha caught by a human.’

He takes a step back, tilts his head. ‘I gotta say, I’m not very impressed.’

 

‘Don’t listen to him, Derek!’

Stiles feels the rod hit his side before he’s finished his sentence, and he grinds his teeth against the pain, determined not to cry out again. 

Matt walks over to where he’s being held, nods to the men, who kick the backs on his knees, sending him crashing painfully to the floor. 

‘Forgotten our little conversation already, Stiles?’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That’s a shame. I was hoping we could drag this out a little longer.’

 

From nowhere, he pulls a gun, aims it at Derek, lets his finger hover over the trigger before pulling it. 

Derek crumples at the bullet hits, crying in pain, clutching his arm where it went in. 

Matt moves over to Stiles, presses the barrel onto his temple, crouching down to look in his eyes before he adds, ‘Next time, that’ll be his head.’

 

He nods at the men again, who let go, leaving Stiles to fall directly on his face. 

He scrambles to his feet, rubbing his cheek where it hit the floor, searching for Derek, wanting to know if he’s okay, wanting to know that he healed. But before he can reach him, the two men grab him, pull him to his feet. 

Derek barely reacts as they drag him away, Matt keeping the gun pointed at the back of his head as he follows.

 

‘Matt, please,’ Stiles begs, running for the door. ‘Matt, please don’t hurt him!’

He tries to follow, tries to get out, but he just misses them, crashing into the door as it swings shut. He hears the lock on the opposite side, and he knows he’s trapped.

 

‘Derek!’ he yells, pounding the door. ‘Derek, don’t listen to them! Derek!’

His fists crash against the metal, pain ricocheting through his wrists with each blow, but he keeps going, keeps calling his name. 

‘Derek!’

He keeps hitting the door, keeps going until his skin breaks, warm blood trickling into his palm. 

He keeps going until his voice cracks, heavy with emotion, and exhaustion, and loss. 

He keeps going until he physically can’t go anymore, hoping that wherever Matt’s taken him, Derek can hear him, can hear him fighting. 

 

Because when he’d left, Derek looked like he didn’t have anything left. And it’s Stiles job to make sure he knows that’s a lie.

 Derek has him. And as long as he’s alive, he’s going to do everything in his power to make him believe it.

  

 

**Derek**

‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not telling you anything.’

 

He grinds the words through his teeth, keeping them clenched to try and relieve some of the pain surging through him. 

His arms are tied painfully above his head, secured with some kind of wolfsbane infused handcuffs. Derek can feel it irritating his skin, wanting to scratch his wrists raw where the metal’s touching him. 

‘Come on, Derek,’ Matt pouts, circling the floor around him. ‘Don’t be like that. You know you’re not going to win this.’

‘Funny,’ Derek retorts. ‘I thought I already had.’

 

Within seconds, electricity pulses through him, catching light on every nerve, every fibre of his body. He closes his eyes, tries to bite back the pain, but it’s hard. The wolfsbane’s affecting him a lot faster than it should do, making it hard to think about anything other than how weak he is. His breaths come in long, ragged bursts that hurt, the air pulling on his lungs uncomfortably. 

When the electricity stops, the release hits him like a brick wall, forcing his muscles to relax too fast. His body sags forwards, straining his wrists in the cuffs above him.

 

‘You know,’ he breaths, forcing himself to look up, ‘as torture methods go, this is pretty cliche.’

Matt laughs, considers him for a second, then shrugs. ‘If you’re bored, we can try something else.’

‘Anything to stop you talking about your fucking sister.’

 

He knows he’s asking for it, but it’s the only thing he can think of to keep them busy, keep them away from Stiles. 

He can hear him screaming from the floor below, his voice getting hoarser by the minute. 

   

_‘Derek!’_

The two guys standing behind Matt pick up baseball bats, swing them menacingly in his direction. 

_'Don’t listen to them, Derek!’_

The first hits his stomach, the second, his shoulder. He doubles over in pain, tries not to show how much it hurts.

_'Derek, please fight them! Please don’t give up!’_

There’s no rest between the blows, just a continuos stream of assaults, breaking a rib, cutting his lip. 

   

‘Where’s Amy?’

‘I don’t know.’

Another blow, this time to the face, sends him sprawling backwards, wrenching his shoulders out of their sockets. 

_‘_ _Derek!’_

‘I’ll ask you again. Where is she?’

Derek laughs, cringes when a jolt of electricity shoots through his wrists. 

‘I already told you,’ he says. ‘I. Don’t. Know.’

This time, the bat catches his nose, hot blood dripping to the floor.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

 

_‘Come on, Derek. I know you can hear me!’_

‘Where is she?’

‘I don't know!’

_Drip… drip… drip…_

 

The sound of blood against cool metal rings loudly in his ears, drowning out everything else. 

Slowly, his eyes start to blur, blackness creeping into his field of vision. 

_‘Derek… Derek, please…’_

_Drip… drip… drip…_

 

He knows someone’s talking, but he can’t hear them, can’t catch the words. They jumble messily in his head, making him dizzy. 

‘ _Derek…’_

_Drip… drip…drip…_

 

He closes his eyes, uses the last of his energy to listen out for Stiles’ heartbeat, slow, steady, rhythmic below him. He remembers falling asleep next to Stiles, head nuzzled in the crook of his neck, remembers what it’s like to feel human. 

He’s terrified, delirious, falling to pieces, but knowing Stiles is here, knowing he’s still alive, it’s all he needs to hold himself together. 

It’s all he needs to stay human.


	14. A Million Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles stills for a second, letting the feel of Derek’s breathing calm him down. Then he adds, ‘I was right, you know.’
> 
> Derek raises his eyebrows, ‘About?’
> 
> Stiles smiles, rests his head against Derek’s shoulder. ‘You would make a pretty good batman.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing about this chapter
> 
> Firstly, I wrote this whole chapter today, and I edited it about 10 minutes ago, so sorry if there's mistakes. Secondly, I dedicate this chapter to my beautiful friend,[Lily](http://lilys-sarcasm.tumblr.com), who made me this AMAZING [post](http://lilys-sarcasm.tumblr.com/post/99593022898/hes-terrified-delirious-falling-to-pieces-but) on Tumblr. Thanks gorgeous. You're a star
> 
> Anyway! Sorry for the wait- let me know what you think in the comments, and as always, ENJOY! :D

**Stiles**

It’s been hours. Stiles doesn’t know how many, but he _does_ know that he’s felt every freaking second. 

Derek stopped screaming a while ago, but every so often, Stiles can feel little jolts in his stomach, like he’s missed his footing on a step, or fallen over. And it’s just as he gets over the nausea they cause, that another one hits, making him want to claw his own stomach out. 

And it’s worse because he knows it has something to do with Derek. It has to; he’s the one upstairs, getting hurt, probably not healing, all because of Stiles.  

The thought makes him want to be sick. 

 

Eventually though, Stiles hears footsteps above him, the sound of muffled talking getting louder every second. 

Instinctively, he goes to shrink back against the wall, to hide behind the boxes again. He’d moved them over when he noticed the barred window peaking out from behind them. It’s too high to reach, and he’s pretty sure they were made to keep werewolves _in,_ but it gives him some light nonetheless. 

 

He takes two steps towards the boxes, but then thinks better of it, and moves into the middle of the room, shoulders squared, ready for a fight. He hasn’t got a hope in hell of actually _winning_ , but he wouldn’t be a Stilinski if he didn’t at least try.  

Head high, he glares as hard as he can at the door, hands curled into fists at his side, waiting for the it to open. 

 

He gets about five seconds warning before the door swings open and Derek’s thrown inside, face down in the dust, groaning softly into the floor. 

They’re plunged into darkness again a few seconds later, but Stiles doesn’t care. He’s too preoccupied by the pile of injured werewolf at his feet to notice.

 

Stiles sinks to his knees beside Derek, tugs at his arm until he turns over, eyes closed, breathing shallow. 

‘Derek?’ Stiles says, shaking him gently. ‘Derek, can you hear me?’

‘Hmmm,’ Derek hums, not opening his eyes. From the outside, Derek doesn’t look too bad, but there’s a lot of dried blood, and Stiles is willing to bet supernatural healing’s played a big part in sewing up the cuts still visible. From the amount of blood on his shirt, and the lingering bruises on his face, Stiles knows things were rough for him. Stiles can’t help but feel a little bit guilty. 

 

‘What’d you need?’ he asks, fumbling over the still healing cuts on his stomach. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

Derek doesn’t answer for a second, but then moans softly. ‘Water…’

Stiles looks around, bites his bottom lip. ‘Err, water might be a problem. Can I offer you my undying love and affection, instead?’

Derek grins. ‘That’ll do.’

 

Smiling softly, Stiles rocks back onto his heels, clicks his tongue. 

‘Can you move?’

Derek thinks for a second. ‘I think so.’

Stiles shakes his head. ‘Too bad. I’m still dragging you.’

 

Ignoring his protests, Stiles tucks his arms into Derek’s armpits, hoists him up until his whole torso’s off the ground. Then, he carefully pulls him backwards until he’s propped up against the wall, back resting on a patch of moss.

‘Fuck me, Derek,’ Stiles huffs, slumping down beside him. ‘You ever considered losing some muscle mass? Because if this becomes a regular thing, I’m gonna pull something.’

‘I said I could move,’ Derek huffs, eyeing him dozily. ‘ _You_ offered to carry me.’

Stiles grins. ‘Yeah, well that was _before_ I knew you weighed three tons.’

‘Gee, thanks. You should talk to Isaac. You have an excellent bedside manner.’

Snorting, Stiles tucks himself under Derek’s arm, winks at him. ‘Gotta work with my natural talents, here.’

 

He takes a breath after that, thinks about all the times _he’s_ been hurt, about the amount of hospital trips he’s taken. He thinks about how Derek probably never needed one until now. 

‘You know what would be cool?’ Stiles says, leaning his head against Derek’s chest. 

‘What?’ Derek asks softly. 

‘If I could take your pain.’

Derek cracks an eye open, smiles a little. ‘You’re doing a pretty good job right now.’

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the little flutter of joy that erupts in his stomach at the thought of _helping_ , actually helping for a change. He feels his cheeks heat up just thinking about it. 

‘Well, I _did_ promise all my love and affection,’ he murmurs, rubbing absently at his cheek. Derek laughs.

‘I’m a lucky guy.’

‘Don’t you know it.’

 

‘Speaking of luck,’ Stiles continues, scratching his chin. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little strange that Matt knows about you?’

‘You mean about werewolves?’

‘Yeah. I mean, it’s not something you’d discuss over dinner.’ He tilts his head in contemplation. ‘Someone must have told him. He wouldn’t have known how to use wolfsbane otherwise.’

Stiles pauses a second, notices the still red marks around Derek’s wrists. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t use too much. You could have died.’

Derek lets his face relax into a small, sad smile, drags his fingers over Stiles’ shoulder. ‘True.’

‘But then again,’ Stiles carries on, nodding vaguely in his direction. ‘You _are_ stuck down here with me, so I’m not sure he’s doing you any favours.’

‘Like I said,’ Derek murmurs. ‘I’m a lucky guy.’ 

 

They fall silent after that, just letting each other heal and breathe a minute.  Stiles is tired, and he thinks he dozes off a few times in the silence, but never for more than a few minutes. His mind’s too full, buzzing with questions that can’t be answered, not wanting to ask any of them in case the answer’s too devastating to deal with. 

There is one question that he knows he can ask, though, and he waits until he can feel Derek wake up before asking it. 

 

 

**Derek**   
****

 ‘We’re in your old house, aren’t we? The one that burnt down?’

 

Stiles shifts slightly in his lap, angles his face so he can see Derek’s. He looks older, the shadows under his eyes darker than Derek’s ever seen them; sallow and purple, hollowing out deep chasms in his face. Derek remembers looking the same, right after Kate… right after he found out about his family. 

 

Slowly, Derek nods, pulls Stiles in a little closer. 

‘You can smell them, can’t you?’ Stiles asks, running the pad of his thumb across the back of Derek’s hand. ‘You can still catch their scent?’

Derek closes his eyes, takes a deep, stuttering breath, then whispers, ‘Yeah.’

 

‘What can I do?’ Stiles says quietly. ‘How can I help?’

‘Stiles-‘

‘Derek,’ he interrupts, squeezing his wrist gently. ‘Please.’

‘Talk,’ Derek responds after a moment. ‘Just… talk.’

Stiles laughs, his shoulders rubbing against Derek’s ribs. It reminds him of the night Stiles fell asleep with him on the couch, the first time he knew Stiles was pack. That night feels like years ago. Derek wonders when he stopped worrying about Stiles leaving. He wonders when he became this permanent, this _important_. 

   

‘I think I can manage that,’ Stiles says. ‘But first…’

He ducks out from under Derek’s arm, arranges himself so that Derek’s head is resting against his neck, arm draped lazily around his waist. 

‘What’re you doing?’ Derek asks, trying to raise his head. Stiles just presses it back against his collar bone.

‘I smell like pack, right?’ he says, linking his fingers into Derek’s. ‘You know, like Scott and Rachel and Ben?’

‘You smell like you,’ Derek says, closing his eyes. Stiles laughs again.

‘That can’t be good.’

Derek shakes his head, nuzzles in closer. ‘It’s always good.’

 

‘You know,’ Stiles says, resting his head against Derek’s. ‘I’ve always been curious. What _do_ I smell like to you guys?’

Derek hums softly under his breath, considers it for a second. 

‘It’s different depending on who you’re talking about.’

‘What about Scott?’ Stiles carries on. ‘What’s his opinion?’

‘Apart from pack?’ Derek says, smiling. ‘He says you smell like coffee… and strawberry shampoo.’

‘The manliest of scents,’ Stiles chuckles, shakes his head, then adds, a little quieter, ‘My mom used to buy it when I was a kid. I never thought to change it.’

‘It’s nice,’ Derek replies. ‘It reminds me of when I was younger. We used to grow strawberries in our backyard.’ 

‘So did we,’ Stiles smiles. Derek sighs, pulls Stiles in a little closer. 

‘Strawberries are awesome.’

 

For a moment, they sit there in silence, Derek breathing into Stiles’ neck, Stiles absently tracing patterns into the back of Derek’s hand.

Eventually, his nudges Derek’s ribs gently, says, ‘What about you?’ 

‘What about me?’

Stiles rolls his eyes. ‘What’s my scent?’

‘Rain,’ Derek says automatically. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. ‘Rain?’

‘Hmm,’ Derek mumbles. ‘Kind of fresh and clean. Like after a storm.’

‘I think I can live with that,’ Stiles says, kicking his foot out so his leg’s stretched across the floor. 

‘You smell kind of like cinnamon,’ he adds softly. ‘And kind of like the forest, and…’

He trails off, his heart suddenly beating a little faster. Derek sits up a little straighter.

‘And…?’

Stiles sighs, glances down at the floor. ‘Bonfires.’

 

Derek stills, then settles back against his shoulder. ‘Makes sense.’

‘No, not like-‘ Stiles says, frustrated. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Okay,’ he says, turning to make Derek sit up and face him, ‘it’s kind of like when you’re driving in the evening, and it’s fall, and the windows are wound down, and the air’s, like, clean, and there’s a fire, and…’   

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m not explaining this very well.’

‘I think it sounds perfect.’

‘No,’ Stiles whines. ‘It’s not. I… I just want you to know that it’s not because of this,’ he gestures around the basement. ‘It’s different. And it’s important, because it’s _you_ , and it’s safe, and just imaging it makes me feel a thousand times better, which is weird because I’ve never really thought about it before-‘

 

Derek doesn’t know why he does it, just knows that it’s absolutely the right thing to do. 

One second, Stiles is rambling, his hands trembling in Derek’s, the next Derek’s pressing their lips together, eyes closed, letting the feeling of complete, disintegrating joy break him into a million pieces. 

 

 

**Stiles**   
****

Stiles can’t breathe. Or at least, he doesn’t think he can. Partly because he’s _freaking the fuck out,_ but mainly because Derek’s lips are on his, and they’re in a burnt out basement, fighting for their lives, but suddenly things feel _right._

The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but to Stiles, it might as well have been hours. Before he can even register what’s happening, he’s leaning into Derek’s lips, letting his teeth drag across his bottom lip gently before they pull away.

 

‘Jesus…’

Derek clears his throat. ‘Yeah.’

‘That was…’

‘Yeah.’

Stiles laughs. ‘You’re an idiot.’

Derek smiles. ‘Yeah.’

 

Stiles straightens up a little, suddenly aware of the guilt swooping low in his chest. 

‘What about Rachel?’ he asks, biting his bottom lip, teeth catching the same spot Derek’s just vacated. Derek winces. ‘I don’t want to-‘

‘Stiles… I- I love her, I really do,’ Derek sighs, ‘but this… this is something else. This is… different.’

Stiles smiles, squeezes his hand, tries not to think about how much Derek’s shaking. 

‘It’s like…’ he tries, scrunching his face up in frustration. ‘It’s kind of like a pull. Like I can go days without seeing Rachel, and I miss her, but with you… with you it’s like I can’t get enough. I _need_ you, Stiles…’

He shuts his eyes, hangs his head. ‘I’m not explaining it very well.’

Stiles laughs, presses their foreheads together before whispering, ‘It sounds perfect.’

 

After that, just holding each other’s enough, both of them entwined in each other’s limbs, learning the way their chests’ rise and fall, the way their eyes get distant and hazy when they think about something outside of their prison. It’s nice, quiet. Stiles reckons he could be happy here, if it weren’t for the impending threat of death. 

 

‘What do you think he’ll do to us?’ Stiles asks, following that train of thought. ‘I mean, apart from the obvious.’

Derek sighs, pulls him closer. ‘I don’t know. He was asking me about Amy. Maybe if I just tell him…’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Stiles says suddenly, pulling away. He looks Derek straight in the eye, more serious than he’s ever been about anything. ‘You don’t give him a damn thing, Derek. What’s one of the first things they teach you when you’re making hostage negotiations?’

‘We don’t make deals with criminals.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’ll probably kill the hostages anyway.’

Stiles raises his eyebrows. ‘Exactly.’

 

For a moment, Derek looks at him, so intensely, Stiles feels uncomfortable from it, not used to feeling so vulnerable, so _open_ in front of anyone. Then Derek drops his eyes to their hands, mutters, ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to you. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Stiles replies softly. ‘Okay, I believe you.’

   

He settles back against Derek, draws patterns across his stomach with his fingers. 

‘Promise me one thing, though.’

‘Hmm?’

‘If you get the chance to escape, if you see a way out, you take it. Even if you have to leave me behind.’

Derek makes an indigent noise, tries to protest, but Stiles just puts a finger to his lips, interrupts him.

‘I’m serious, Derek. It doesn’t make sense for both of us to die. You’ve seen those crappy movies where people go back for their friends. Yeah, it’s noble and all that shit, but it’s also stupid.’ 

He takes a breath, then adds, ‘If you get the chance, you take it. And you find people who can stop him. It’s your job to protect this town, Derek, and at the moment, it’s me or them. It’s what you were trained to do. It’s what you _have_ to do.’

Derek squeezes his arm, gives him a deeply searching look. ‘It’s my job to protect _everyone_ , Stiles. That includes you.’

He smiles down at him, rubs his thumb along his jaw. Stiles would be lying if he said he didn’t lean into it.

‘I don’t care if it’s stupid,’ Derek continues. ‘I don’t care if it’s cliche, or dramatic or selfish. I’m not leaving you. Not again.’

   

‘How did I find you again?’ Stiles asks fondly, trying to blink away the wetness in his eyes.

‘I think it had something to do with coffee,’ Derek says, bopping their heads together. Stiles huffs out a laugh.

‘Thought it was something like that.’

 

Stiles stills for a second, letting the feel of Derek’s breathing calm him down. Then he adds, ‘I was right, you know.’

Derek raises his eyebrows, ‘About?’

Stiles smiles, rests his head against Derek’s shoulder. ‘You _would_ make a pretty good batman.’

 

 

**Derek**

Eventually, Stiles falls asleep, curled into Derek’s side, head resting against his chest, murmuring softly to himself. 

 Derek’s glad he’s resting, but that doesn’t stop the hopeless longing in his chest that wants Stiles to be talking to him again, _joking_ with him. Because that’s the thing he loves most about Stiles; even when things are bad, he still knows how to laugh. 

That’s what he misses when he sleeps; that constant morale that’s stopping him going completely insane. Without the constant chatter, the basement’s quiet and empty and depressing. 

He hasn’t been down here since the fire, could never face it before. He knows why. There’s this constant hum of fear and pain around the place that’s still lingering from all those years ago, clinging to the walls, the floor, the boxes. 

Boxes?

 

‘Stiles,’ Derek whispers, shaking his shoulder gently. ‘Stiles, wake up.’

‘Wassit?’ Stiles slurs, starting himself awake. Derek points at the boxes.

‘How long have they been here?’

‘Since we got here,’ Stiles yawns, rubbing his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘They’re not mine,’ Derek says, getting up. ‘And I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure if they were, they’d have burnt in the fire.’

Catching on, Stiles jumps to his feet, gives Derek a pointed look. ‘You think they’re Matt’s?’

Derek shrugs. ‘Only one way to find out.’

 

Slowly, they edge towards the boxes, pull the one down from the top. Just before they open it, Stiles puts his hand over Derek’s, looks at him, concerned. 

‘You know this could be a trap.’

Derek nods. ‘Which is why you’re not going to touch anything.’

‘What about you?’

‘Supernatural healing,’ Derek smirks, gesturing to his body. ‘I’ll be alright.’

‘Of course,’ Stiles tuts, rolling his eyes. ‘Right then, get on with it. If we’re gonna escape, I’d like it to be as soon as possible.’

 

Fighting the urge to roll his own eyes, Derek carefully peels away the top flaps of the book, loops a finger inside and pulls…

But nothing happens. Both of them let out a breath.

‘Well at least we know it’s not a bomb,’ Derek sighs, wiping his forehead. Stiles snorts.

‘Don’t you think it would have gone off by now if it was a bomb? I dragged the fucking things across the room earlier.’

   

Ignoring him, Derek looks down into the box, moves so the light from the window shines directly into it. 

‘Well that’s unexpected,’ Stiles says, voice completely flat. Derek blinks.

The box is half full, the contents strew around haphazardly inside. Whatever Derek had expected, it hadn’t been this. 

‘Why the hell would he need tampons?’ Stiles asks, face slightly manic. ‘I mean, I understand the vaseline, but _tampons_? That’s totally weird.’

‘What I’m more concerned about,’ Derek says, reaching inside and pulling out a small box of matches, ‘is why these are in here.’

 

It takes a second, but that’s all it takes for Derek to see the pieces connect in Stiles’ head. It’s like watching someone finish a puzzle. He’d find it incredible if Stiles didn’t look like he’s about to pass out.

‘Holy shit,’ he says, dropping to the floor, rummaging through the box. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ 

‘What is it?’ Derek asks, his heart pounding. Stiles looks up at him, concern written across his face.

‘Did you ever catch that arsonist?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘No, why?’

Stiles bites his bottom lip, stares down into the box, eyes glued on the matches still in Derek’s hand. He swallows hard. 

‘I think we just found him.’

 

 

**Stiles**

For the first time in his life, Stiles can safely say that his hours spent of google have paid off. Because it’s only those lonely nights at three am when you find yourself researching fire starters ‘just because.’  
 ****

He digs around in the box, lays each thing out carefully on the floor. 

‘You see these?’ he says, pointing at them. ‘They’re all fire starters.’

‘What, even dryer lint?’ Derek asks, eyeing the stuff suspiciously. Stiles nods. 

‘It’s made of one hundred percent cotton fibres. You keep all this stuff in a box, and set fire to it, and you’ve got yourself the perfect arson.’ 

Stiles throws the things back in the box, closes it and shudders. ‘Fuck, he’s smart.’

‘Okay,’ Derek says slowly, pushing the box back against the wall. ‘But why would Matt want to burn stuff down? I mean, he burnt a _toy car_ for christ’s sake. That’s not going to make much of an impact, is it?’

‘Depends on who he’s targeting,’ Stiles shrugs. ‘A toy car to one guy is an important memory to another.’

‘Yeah, I guess…’

 

 

**Derek**

Derek trails off, remembers the feeling of feet dragging over grass, the sound of screaming, the smell of smoke. Then it hits him. 

‘It was me.’

Stiles frowns. ‘Pardon?’

‘The target,’ Derek says quietly, glancing at Stiles. ‘It was me.’

 

Stiles cocks his head at him, sucks in a deep breath. ‘How’d you know?’

‘The car,’ Derek replies, voice shaking. ‘When I got to the crime scene… all I could see was… all I could see was the one I had when I was a kid, the one that was left on the porch when the house…’

 

He sighs, swallows the lump crawling up the back of his throat. 

‘We need to check the other boxes,’ he says as calmly as he can. ‘There might be other evidence in there.’

‘Are you sure,’ Stiles says softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Derek, if this is too much-‘

‘Stiles, we could be dead by morning,’ he breaths. ‘It’s now or never.’

 

Nodding, Stiles pulls the other two boxes forward, opens them as quickly as he can, directs them into the light. 

Inside one, there’s five empty cereal boxes, a few left over granola bars and a few empty bottles of water, in the other, the same jumbled assortment of fire starters as before. Derek lets out a heavy sigh.

‘What is it?’ Stiles asks, curiously. Derek looks up at him.

‘The week I met you, Erica filed a robbery report where five boxes of cereal, a load of granola bars, and five litre bottles of water were stolen. Turns out the key to the store was copied. Nothing else was touched.’

‘So what you’re saying is…’ Stiles starts, his mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. Derek nods, grips the box so hard it rips. 

‘It was Matt… It was all Matt.’

 


	15. Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He makes his decision in less than three seconds, drops, and rolls himself over to the table, scrambling under it for dear life. Because last time something like this happened, all he wanted to do was break.
> 
> But now? Now he wants to do the breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Long time no see.  
> So here's chapter 15- I really hope you like it! This has been one of the hardest chapters to write, so that's why it took so long. I'm sorry- uni's working me hard :( BUT I am SO happy with the feedback for this story- it's crazy the amount of people following along, and I really hope this lives up to your expectations!
> 
> Anyway, if you like, please let me know in the comments! Your messages make my day :* ENJOY!

**Stiles**

‘We’re going to die down here.’

Stiles slumps against the wall, lets it take his weight as he slides down to the floor.

‘You can’t think like that,’ Derek says, pushing the box away from him. He takes one last look at the contents, then sighs and moves next to him, tucks his arm around his waist. ‘We’re gonna get out of here. I’ll make sure we do.’

‘Would you stop that?’ Stiles huffs, leaning in despite himself. Derek frowns.

‘Stop what?’

‘All this… positivity,’ Stiles says, waving his hand in a general direction. ‘It’s disconcerting.’

Derek snorts out a laugh. ‘How?’

‘Because you…. it just is, okay?’ Stiles splutters, frowning. ‘You’re too damn good to me.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Derek asks, turning him slightly so that Stiles is almost facing him. ‘Too good to you?’

‘Yes, too good to me,’ Stiles counters, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m just some random guy you met in a coffee shop, and now you’re trapped in the basement your family _died_ in, just because you helped me do something I should have been able to do on my own…’

He trails into silence, bites his lip against the wave of crushing hopelessness washing over him. He wants to be upset, wants to scream, cry, _feel_. But there’s nothing but an empty space in his chest where emotion should be; a dark void that used to be full.

‘We’re going to die, Derek,’ he says, his words like lead. ‘We’re going to die and it’s all my fault.’

 

He feels Derek tense beside him, his chest vibrating in a growl that Stiles feels down to his core, ricocheting round his body, bouncing off his bones.

‘This is _not_ your fault, Stiles,’ he says, pulling him in closer. ‘If anything it’s mine. I was the one who got involved at the coffee shop, I was the one who arrested her. I’m the one who didn’t do my job properly.’

Derek takes a breath, uses the pause to run a hand through Stiles’ hair. Stiles leans into the touch, almost whispers when he adds, ‘And I’m the one who fell in love with a psychopath.’

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, rides through the shuddering sob that rips through him. ‘Oh, god, I loved her, Derek. I _loved_ her…’

Another sob, this time punctuated with a hiccup.

‘Why do we do that?’ he asks from behind the sleeve of his hoodie. ‘Why do we love people like her?’

Derek rubs his thumb across Stiles’ shoulder, blinks blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes glazed and empty, remembering something Stiles will never see. His voice is just as lifeless when he replies.

‘Because no matter how many times they knock you down, you feel like they’re the only ones who can help you back up again.’

 

 

**Derek**

There’s something different in the way Stiles is sitting; balled up, tense, shoulders rounded. He’s shaking, the arm tucked against Derek’s side trembling uncontrollably, his hands clenched into fists.

Derek doesn’t need supernatural abilities to know he’s scared.

 

‘Have you ever been in love, Derek?’ Stiles’ voice is quiet, but to Derek, it’s deafening, slamming into him with the force of a thousand speeding bullets. He bites his lip.

‘What’d you mean?’

A pause. A heartbeat. Stiles carries on.

‘I mean, have you… have you ever told someone you loved them?’

Derek shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Have you ever wanted to?’

‘Yeah,’ Derek replies softly. ‘Yeah, I have’

 

 

**Stiles**

They’re silent, but he can’t help feeling like it’s meant for him; like he’s supposed to fill in the blanks gouged out where answers should be.

His hand finds Derek’s again, fits perfectly in the gaps not yet taken. Somehow, he knows that’s not a coincidence.

‘I don’t want to die alone, Derek.’

‘You won’t be alone,’ Derek smiles, pressing their foreheads together. ‘You’ve got me.’

 

 

**Derek**

An hour later, Derek hears footsteps above them, the sound of people walking down the stairs.

He jerks his head towards the door, waits three seconds, then moves.

‘Get behind me,’ he says quietly, dragging Stiles up from the floor. ‘You don’t leave my side, you understand?’

‘Yeah, I-‘

 

The rest of his sentence is lost in a shower of noise, screeching metal and heartbeats vibrating from the walls, through his feet, in the air. He doesn’t have time to turn around. He’s down before he blinks an eyelid.

 

 

**Stiles**

Derek falls in slow motion, expression only momentarily surprised before he’s on the floor, telling Stiles to run, to get out, to get away.

He catches Derek, but it’s not enough. Something pricks his arm, sapping every ounce of strength from him. He doesn’t have time to run.

He’s down before he can take a step.

 

 

**Derek**

Things fade in and out; hushed voices, whimpering moans, heavy breathing.

His body’s numb, completely immobile beneath him, making it harder to drag himself back from the depths of unconsciousness that he’s somehow slid into. Even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t.

 

His eyes still closed, he tries to find Stiles’ heartbeat, but there’s this rushing in his ears that he can’t explain, drowning out almost everything expect his own quivering heart, trying desperately to keep beating, keep him alive, keep him fighting.

But then it’s there, and Stiles is alive, and _he’s_ still fighting, even if Derek can’t. It’s slow, and it’s weak, but it’s there. It’s still there…

 

 

**Stiles**

He wakes up long enough to reach out for Derek, his hand brushing something warm and soft and familiar before it’s ripped away again.

He tries to say something, to protest, get away, but there’s nothing except his own slowly beating heart, and the ghost of Derek’s hand, still imprinted against his skin, reminding him that he’s still there, still alive, still fighting.

 

The next thing he feels is rough hands carrying him away, the smell of charred wood and smoke burning his lungs before he loses grip on reality, lets himself fall back into the darkness, away from Matt, away from the old Hale house, back into a place where the only thing to be afraid of are the imaginary monsters running through the woods, and the thought that they might somehow be real.

 

 

**Derek**

Everything hurts. That’s all he can think when he groans into consciousness, head spinning, body like lead, slumped in a chair on the second floor of the house.

He blinks into the light, not in the least bit surprised that he’s tied down. His wrists are itching, burning, rejecting the wolfsbane infused into the metal. There’s just enough to keep him subdued, unable to transform, but not enough to do any permeant damage. Derek supposes he should be grateful. Grateful for his life. When did his standards drop so low?

 

‘Finally,’ a voice sneers from the corner, loud in Derek’s head. ‘I was starting to think these two idiots had killed you by accident.’

Matt emerges from the corner, all controlled anger and dark shadows. He walks with a dominance Derek hadn’t noticed until now, his eyes hooded, calm, calculating. His movements are slow and measured; even the steady way his muscles arch and shift creates purpose, like he’s mapped out the pattern his fingers tap behind his back.

‘Like you’re not going to do it anyway,’ Derek bites out, glaring at him. Just the way he’s standing, the soft but harsh edges, the alive but dead eyes, it’s all grating on him.

 _That’s what he wants_ , he tells himself, trying to control the urge to get angry. _He’s trying to get to you_.

 

Derek forces himself to look away, to scan the rest of the space around him. It looks just like it did when he was a kid, just burnt and broken and completely destroyed. If he really tries, he can almost imagine what it looked like before the fire; the sofas and the bookshelf he used to curl up in front of. The pictures on the blackened mantlepiece.

There’s nothing left of them now. Nothing except shattered glass and tarnished frames, twisted and warped and disintegrated by heat. One of the pictures was of his parents on their wedding day. He wishes he’d been able to save it. Stiles would have liked it.

As it is, Stiles is tied up a few feet away, in the middle of the room. He’s gagged and bruised and scared, but he’s awake. That’s all Derek could have hoped for right now.

 

‘Are you sure, Derek?’ Matt asks, voice like velvet in his ear. ‘You want me to kill you now? I could, you know. I could kill you.’

He takes a deep, overacted breath, then grins, wide, toothy and completely insane. ‘But where’s the fun in that?’

 

The noise of Stiles’ head snapping back makes Derek jump so high, he almost topples the chair in his haste to get to him. He tears at the cuffs binding him to it, almost dislocating his wrists in his attempts to break free.

‘I did warn you, Derek,’ Matt shouts over the din. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. My sister for Stiles. That’s not a bad offer if you think about it.’

‘This has nothing to do with him!’ Derek yells back, struggling harder than ever as Stiles’ head jerks back again with the force of the next punch. ‘Look,’ he adds a little desperately, ‘torture me. Do that to me, but leave him out of it. Please, just… stop it!’

 

He sounds like a kid, like a horrible romance novel cliché, but the last time he had something this important to lose, he was a kid; fifteen and barely able to control the shift. Now he’s older. He has a family, a _pack_ , a life of his own, but he still feels like he did the night his parents died; weak, vulnerable and utterly, crushingly helpless.

 

‘It’s your choice, Derek,’ Matt says, circling him slowly, amusement etched into his features. ‘Tell me how to get to Amy, or I’ll let them punch Stiles into a coma.’

‘Derek, don’t!’

 

Somewhere between punches, the gag’s fallen from Stiles’ mouth, hanging limply round his neck, stained with blood and dirt from his face. He only has time to look at Derek for a second, before his head whips round again, this time accompanied by a grunt of pain.

And another…

And another…

 

‘Alright! I’ll tell you! Just stop…’

It’s somewhere between the sickening thuds, and the physical pain ripping through his body that Derek decides it’s too much, too risky. No matter what he promised Stiles, he can’t watch him die. Not when he can do something to stop it. Stiles doesn’t look at him for a moment, his head hanging loosely from his neck, spitting blood onto the floor. But then he does, and it’s like an apology and and _‘thank you,’_ all at once.

 

‘I’m a little disappointed, Derek,’ Matt says, waving the men away from Stiles. He shakes his head, pouts in mock disappointment, ‘Kate promised me you’d be more fun.’

Derek freezes, his whole body numb, oddly still. Nothing moves, nothing breaths. For a moment, the whole world’s wrapped in crushing numbness; derailed, distant, detached. It’s like he’s stuck in a vacuum, drowning under the weight of repressed memories. The calm before the storm.

He doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to the floor, avoids the four sets of eyes burning into him. He bites his lip, hopes it’ll help hold him together. It doesn’t.

 

‘How sweet,’ Matt says, his voice soft, but still cutting. ‘You didn’t know.’

‘Of course he didn’t know, you fuck,’ Stiles shouts, twisting to try and get out of his own handcuffs. ‘He hasn’t seen her in years.’

‘Would someone gag him again, please?’

 

Matt smirks as one of the guys steps forward, wrestling with Stiles, who’s dodging his hands.

‘Don’t listen to him, Derek! He’s just trying to get into your he- _oph_ ’

The rest of his sentence is drowned out why the wad of material stuffed into his mouth, but that doesn’t stop him trying to kick the guy’s shins as he walks away.

‘You should control him, Derek,’ Matt says. ‘You wouldn’t want another death on your shoulders.’

 

Stiles stills at that, stares at Derek, wide eyed and _pleading_ , begging him to keep his promise, to safe himself. But Derek can’t do it. He either sits here, listens to Matt talk about Kate, or they die. It’s a no-brainer, really.

‘Okay, Matt,’ he says carefully, shifting himself into a better position. ‘How did you find her?’

‘Good question.’

 

He strolls over to Stiles, taps the back of his chair slowly. Stiles visibly shudders.

‘But it wasn’t really that difficult. You’ve got quite the reputation, Derek. Lots of connections. Lots of people asking the same old thing: ‘How did Derek Hale survive?’

‘So I did a little digging,’ he continues, leaving Stiles’ side to stand opposite Derek. ‘It didn’t take long once I knew where to look. And all Amy could talk about was the deputy that ruined her life. Deputy Hale. The one who just couldn’t keep his badge to himself…’

 

Matt takes an empty chair from the corner of the room, sits down the wrong way, leans his elbows against the back. ‘Would you believe that gossip travels fast in a town like this? Especially if you know what you’re looking for. I only had to dig around a few days before Kate approached me, asked me what I wanted with you. And then she was more than happy to help.

‘She told me all about the Hale fire, how to replicate it, how to get away with it. She knew it all. And then she gave all that information to me.’

 

He throws the chair to the side just as Derek’s control starts to disintegrate, his pulse jumping somewhere just below his jaw, irregular and thudding, throbbing with anger.

'You shouldn’t feel bad, Derek,’ he says. ‘It’s not _your_ fault you keep falling for the wrong people.’

He approaches Stiles, grabs his jaw, forces his head to turn at his will. ‘He _is_ pretty.’

 

Derek tries to calm down, tries to block it all out. But the way Matt’s holding Stiles is making a part of him, the distinctly _non-human_ part, want to kill, to rip and tear and _hurt_ until Stiles is safe again. He wants to scream, to transform, give in to the anger, the aggression, the power. He doesn’t want to feel helpless anymore. He wants to feel strong. He wants to get them out of here.

 

‘Go on then,’ Matt presses, his hands still on Stiles, who looks equally, if not more, angry than Derek. ‘Tell me where she is.’

‘She’s being held in the cells for a few more days until there’s space for her out of town,’ Derek says, darkly. ‘Funnily enough, the Sheriff didn’t want to keep her too close.’

He pauses, takes a breath, than adds, ‘If you want her, you’ll have to find a way to break into the station and get her.’

‘Break in?’ Matt asks, laughing like he’s said something funny. ‘Oh, Derek. I won’t have to do that. By the time I’m done, they’ll be begging me to take her.’

 

 

**Stiles**

Stiles rarely gets motion sickness; he was practically a human whirlwind as a kid, so it would have just been impractical. Now, though, every bump in the road, every lurch to a stop makes him want to puke.

He’s in the back of a van, a small one, tied to a different fucking chair that’s bolted to the floor to stop it moving. There are boxes stacked around him, mostly full of the same fire starters they saw back in the basement. But some have other things in them; clothes, tools, weapons. There’s even a rusty old baseball bat slung haphazardly into one on his left. It’s almost like a home, if you overlook the dirt, the potential fire hazards and the lack of anything comfortable.

 

‘If you throw up in here, I’ll kill you myself.’

The driver’s voice echoes back through the van, deep and heady and almost scary. Stiles nicknamed him ‘Bald Guy’, on account of the fact that he has no hair. The other guy, ‘Baby Face’ got his nickname for similar reasons.

‘Had that much experience with hostages, huh?’ Stiles quips back, glaring despite the fact he’s facing the wrong way.

‘Enough to know that they tend to get queasy on the journey.’

 

Stiles huffs, forces out a fake laugh that takes more effort than it’s worth, and replies, ‘Ever thought of hanging up the old boots? You know, try out some less criminal activities?’

‘Not when I’m getting paid this much,’ Bald Guy says blankly. ‘Now shut up, or that gag goes back on.’

‘Yeah, nope. Not gonna happen,’ Stiles counters. ‘I have a reputation, you see. Wouldn’t want to lose it now.’

‘You’ll lose your fucking tongue in a minute,’ the man growls from the front. Stiles quirks his eyebrows.

‘Was that supposed to be menacing? ‘Cause I gotta say, buddy, it’s not working out for you.’

 

There’s a growl, a jolt of acceleration from the front, and Stiles knows he’s got his attention. Hopefully he can keep it up long enough to keep him away from Derek. Hopefully he can distract the guy long enough to help.

 

 

**Derek**

Derek never gets car sick. He likes driving too much, and he spends half his working life in a car, so it would be impractical, if anything. Now, though, the whole world’s spinning outside the windows, churning something unpleasant in his stomach, sending waves of nausea pulsing through him.

He’s in the front of a car, handcuffed discreetly to his seat, travelling too fast along a quiet backstreet, heading straight for the station.

They cross three red lights without stopping, swerve to avoid a cat crossing the road, and narrowly miss rolling over on a particularly tight corner. It’s a miracle they haven’t killed someone.

 

‘You better hope she’s at the station, Derek,’ Matt says, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘You won’t like the consequences if she’s not.’

 

*

 

It’s quiet when they pull up, hardly any cars out front. The front blinds are closed, but the light’s on inside, creating thin strips of illumination across the dark concrete.

Derek wonders how many people are inside. He knows the sheriff’s there, can see his car, parked closest to the doors. He can see Erica’s as well, which means Boyd’s in there with her. Great.

 

‘Get out,’ Matt says, pointing the gun at the back of his head, and Derek realises he’s not cuffed to the seat anymore. Instead, his arms are dragged behind his back and cuffed there instead, shoulders cramping under the strain.

‘Where’s Stiles?’ he asks, glaring icily at the guy getting back in the car.

‘Why don’t you just focus on yourself for now, huh?’ Matt replies, nudging him forward. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about.’

 

They walk silently towards the station, Derek trying to keep himself under control. It’s cold, overcast, the threat of rain hanging heavily in the air. Derek wishes he had a jacket. Even with his werewolf heat, he can’t seem to stop himself from shaking.

Eventually, though, Matt swings the door open, pushes him inside, and it’s both a relief and a shock when the warm air hits him.

 

It takes a moment for anyone to react.

When the door swings shut behind them, Jackson’s the first to look up, but it’s Erica and Boyd who come crashing into the reception two seconds later, dishevelled and wide eyed, chests heaving. They skid to a halt a few feet away, take in Derek’s tattered clothes, the blood on his shirt, the pale, dirt streaked complexion, and immediately freeze, eye the gun held firmly to the back of his head.

 

‘What the hell’s gotten into you two-‘

John emerges from the corridor, top button undone, looking exhausted, the circles under his eyes heavy and dark against his pale skin.

He clocks on a little slower than the others, but that’s mainly because his eyes are glued to Erica and Boyd for a second. When they flit to Matt, though, he looks more undone than Derek’s ever seen him. Still in control, still the sheriff, but not quite the same John Derek sees on a daily basis. That, more than anything, makes Derek more scared than he ever thought he would be.

 

‘Hello, Sheriff,’ Matt says from behind Derek, making sure they can’t get a clear shot. ‘I would say it’s good to see you again, but given the circumstances I’m not sure that’s appropriate.’

‘Matt,’ John holds a cautious hand up, steps forward. ‘This isn’t what you want. Put the gun down, and we can talk. It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘Oh, but it does,’ Matt laughs, tapping the gun once against the base of Derek’s neck. ‘I’ve come to far for it to be any different. You would know. You’ve been following me for weeks.’

 

There’s a moment when Derek sees realisation bleed into the expression of every single person in the room, sees their eyes glaze slightly as they think back on all the unsolved cases still sitting in files on their desks. He sees the minute it all makes sense to them, sees the anger, annoyance, rage come to the surface, bubbling and ready and alive.

‘Okay, Matt,’ John says, tone sharper than before. ‘We’re listening. We’ll talk about this. Just tell me where my son is.’

‘What, Stiles?’ Matt asks, biting laughter back from his tone. ‘Well, he’s actually not that far away, John. In fact, he’s just outside. I think he’s expecting your call.’

 

 

**Stiles**

The world is falling to pieces. At least, Stiles’ world is. Or rather, it's about to.

He saw the bottles before he could register what was in them, leaving him no time to rationally think about what he was supposed to do about it. And by then, it’s too late.

Bald Guy throws the back doors open wide, unscrews one of the bottles agonisingly slowly, taking his time to torture Stiles out of his sanity.

It’s only when he starts to pour it that Stiles’ resolve breaks down completely.

 

‘Hey,’ he whimpers, his voice cracking. ‘Hey. Wait! Stop!’

The guy doesn’t listen, pours the gasoline round him in a circle, starting over his feet, his ankles, his shins.

‘Please,’ Stiles begs. ‘Please. You don’t have to do this.’

Again, nothing.

‘Come on, man. Let’s… let’s talk about this… wait! What’re you-? No! Stop!’

 

He closes his eyes as gasoline pours over his head, filling his mouth, burning his scenes. He spits it out, but that doesn’t stop the acrid taste from choking him.

‘Sorry kid, got a job to do.’

Stiles does nothing but whimper as the click of a lighter sounds a lot like a gun shot in an empty room.

 

 

**Derek**

‘Stiles? Stiles, is that you?’

John stares wildly out the window, face set in an agonised expression as he presses it up against the glass, phone clutched in his hand so tightly, it looks like it might break.

_‘Dad? It’s me… I’m here…’_

Stiles’ voice cracks through the speaker, harsh and desperate. He sounds younger over the phone, just like he did the night he called Derek the first time, like he could break at any minute.

John’s brow furrows, if possible, even more. ’Are you okay?’

 

A light flickers on in the parking lot, illuminating the van, and the person inside it. Derek’s stomach drops.

Stiles is tied to a chair, his hands behind him, shivering, skin wet with something thicker than water. John’s face goes white at the same time Derek’s hands curl into fists.

‘Stiles,’ John says, not bothering to let Stiles answer his last question. ‘I need you to answer me truthfully. Are you hurt?’

 _‘I’m fine,’_ Stiles replies, his voice trembling. _‘I’m… I’m sorry-‘_

He finishes his sentence with a sob, the speaker momentarily drowned out by the sound of his breathing. Derek can see him from here, his eyesight better than the others. Stiles is biting his lip, which is trembling with the effort to hold back tears. His head’s bent down, eyes squeezed shut.

‘Hey,’ John soothes softly, tone somewhere between the Sheriff and the dad of a hostage. ‘We don’t want any of that. We’re going to get you out, Stiles. Just sit tight, kiddo. It’s gonna be alright.’

_‘No!’_

Stiles’ head snaps up, starts shaking violently against the phone. _‘No, Dad, you can’t let her go. You worked too hard. I won’t let you-‘_

‘You’re not really in the position to be calling shots, Stilinski,’ Matt calls out, glancing out the window. ‘Try to remember who’s in charge here.’

 

He pushes Derek further into the room, towards John, who almost pulls the phone out of reach. ‘You want to wrap it up, Sheriff?’ he says, glancing down at John’s palm. ‘We don’t have all night.’

John looks down at the phone, then sighs, his expression unreadable.

‘I have to go, Stiles,’ he says quietly, voice on the verge of cracking. ‘Don’t panic, okay? We’re… We’re gonna get you out. I promise.’

_‘No! Dad! Don’t-‘_

 

 

**Stiles**

They used zip ties. That’s their first mistake.

As the son of the sheriff, Stiles spent the better part of high school in and out of self defence lessons, mainly brought on when there’d been a particularly nasty case. There was even a month, after a violent and highly successful kidnaping, when Stiles’ dad had made him learn how to break out of a zip tie.

It had never been useful until now.

 

Slowly, he shimmies his wrist until the smallest part is touching the plastic. Then he works on edging the other hand out. It’s not the ideal method, but his hands are behind him, and any other way will just draw attention to himself. So he keeps it slow, taking it step by step, until he’s able to slide his fingers out.

 

‘You better hope your dad pays up soon,’ Bald Guy says blankly, playing absently with the lighter in his hands. ‘I’ve been told to burn you if they’re not out in fifteen minutes.’

‘Again with the menacing act,’ Stiles croaks, voice still harsh from the gasoline. ‘It’s still not working on me.’

‘What would work for you. huh?’ Bald Guy says, eyes following the trail of light sparking from the flame. ‘What about if I gave Matt a call? Told him to shoot one of them? Last I heard, a lot of the pack works in there. Could be fun. Seeing one of them die.’

Stiles swallows heavily, leans back in the chair, tucks the zip tie up his sleeve. ‘You think you can scare me?’

‘I’m not scaring you, I’m threatening you.’

‘Touché,’ Stiles mutters darkly, rolling his eyes.

 

Bald Guy smirks, flicking the lighter again, this time dangerously close to the trail of gasoline. ‘You know, for a kid, you’ve got a pretty big price on your head. Must have pissed off a lot of people.’

Stiles laughs darkly. ‘Well _that’s_ not surprising.’

Bald Guy leans against the van’s door, cocks his head slightly. ‘You got other people lining up to kill you?’

Stiles pretends to think about it, hums in contemplation. ‘Well, there’s Amy. That’s kind of a given, really. Then there’s Matt, obviously. And then there’s the last guy…’

‘Who’s that?’

‘You.’

 

Before he can react, Stiles jumps out of his chair, grabs the nearest thing to hand, the rusty baseball bat, and swings it as hard as he can, wincing as it smashes into the guy’s skull.

Almost instantly, the guy crumbles, lands in a heap on the floor, blood oozing from somewhere near his temple.

Quickly, Stiles shakes the zip tie from his sleeve, shimmies it until it’s around bald guy’s wrists, then tightens it, making sure there’s next to no wiggle room. Then, because he’s not an asshole, he drags him away from the gasoline, only a few feet, leaves him lying face down in the dirt.

 

That’s when the rain comes; thick and heavy and unforgiving. It drenches Stiles in seconds, washing the taste of gasoline from his mouth, running down his face, making the dirt cake the lines of his skin.

He takes a second to rub himself clean, let the rain stop the burning in his eyes. Then he picks up the bat, glances at Bald Guy, who’s still out cold, slumped messily a few feet away.

‘Huh,’ he says weighing the bat in his hands, the words Derek repeated all those weeks ago ringing in his ears as he turns towards the station. ‘I guess aluminium really _is_ better than wood.’

 

 

**Derek**

Derek turns the keys in the lock, drops them back into his pocket.

‘There,’ he says bluntly, not bothering to hide his scowl. ‘You happy?’

‘Not yet,’ Matt says, slipping the keys into his pocket. ‘Not until I have Amy.’

Derek stands stock still, doesn’t bother to move until Matt points the gun at him, nudges him towards the back cells.

 

As soon as John put the phone down, Matt had them in the palm of his hand. With the threat of Stiles burning to death hanging over their heads, everyone did exactly what he said. Nobody even questioned it. So that’s why Derek’s here, locking his pack and his boss into an empty cell, unarmed, giving Matt everything he wants. It’s all because Matt’s too smart, too prepared. He knew all their weakness, and exploited the fuck out of them. He’s literally got them backed into a corner. Derek’s not risking anything when he knows Stiles’ life is at risk, and he knows the others won’t either.

Overall, they’re screwed. Completely, totally screwed.

 

‘Move, or I shoot you.’

‘Look, you’ve got what you want, Matt. Why don’t you just put the gun down?’

‘I’ll put it down when I have Amy,’ he says coldly, pushing it further into his back. ‘Now move, or I shoot them as well.’

 

Derek walks him to the secure cells in silence, face get in a scowl. As soon as he gets to the door, he stops, lets Matt crash into him.

‘What the hell’s this, Hale?’ Matt spits, straightening up. ‘Think you’re being funny?’

‘We’re here,’ Derek says simply, nodding at the door. ‘She’s in there.’

‘Keys,’ Matt demands, holding his hand out.

Derek pulls the keys out slowly, places them directly in his open palm.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

 

 

**Stiles**

He sprints into the station, dripping, rubbing water from his eyes as he searches the room.

The reception’s empty, but he knows where he needs to go. Taking the corridor straight ahead of him, Stiles catapults himself forward, narrowly avoiding the various chairs and tables strewn across the hallway.

He can hear talking, muffled voices from down the hall; all urgent, hushed, nervous. It doesn’t take him long to find them.

 

‘Stiles!’

Erica all but runs into the bars, crashing into them with a force that has to have hurt. She doesn’t seem to have noticed, just reaches out through the bars to hug him, pull him in, push her nose into the crook of his neck. Stiles lets it happen, puts a finger to his lips when his dad opens his mouth.

‘I’m okay,’ he whispers, glancing back the way he came. ‘Which way did they go?’

‘You are _not_ going after them,’ John hisses back, angry and relieved all at once. ‘He’s armed, Stiles.’

‘Well then, I’ll have to disarm him,’ Stiles murmurs back, trying to inject as much apology into his voice as possible. ‘Dad, I can’t-‘

 

His sentence is broken by a gun shot, then another, ringing round the entire station. In reality, it’s not loud, but to Stiles, it might as well have been deafening.

Staggering back, he clutches the bars for a second, hears people talking, but it’s all white noise. He drops the bat, can’t keep hold of it. Because Derek can’t be dead. He can’t be.

 

He feels a hand he vaguely identifies as his dad’s grab his shoulder, fingers wrapped in the sodden shirt before he brushes it away, looks straight into his father’s pleading eyes, and whispers, ‘Dad… please.’

John looks mutinous; stern and fragile and unrelenting all at once. It’s the same look he had when Stiles’ mother died. Somehow, it seems worse now, etched into his skin like a scar that’ll never fade.

For the first time, Stiles appreciated just how lonely his dad must have been when he left. He realises how much it means to him that he’s alive.

 

Slowly, he takes his dad’s trembling hand, holds it tight, looks him straight in the eye. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

It’s not a promise, but a reassurance; something for him to hold onto. John sighs.

‘There’s an office two doors down. Go in there and arm yourself. I don’t care if it’s a pin cushion. You use it, okay?’

Stiles nods, folds the bat into John’s hands. ‘Take this, then,’ he says quietly. ‘You’ll need it if the other guys come in.’

John nods, his expression unreadable, blank from years of repressed emotion. ‘Stay safe, kiddo.’

All Stiles can do is return the nod. Then he’s running into the office without a second glance, scrabbling furiously with his last hope at saving Derek.

 

 

**Derek**

Two shots. Two bullet wounds burning crimson.

Normally, it wouldn’t be enough to bring him down, but the overexposure to wolfsbane and lack of food have left him with nothing to run on, no energy to heal.

 

In the time it takes for him to glance down at the blood slowly seeping across his stomach, Matt manages to kick him to the ground, crowd him in a corner. Derek’s sees the gun again, knows that he has no chance of escaping.

Distantly, he thinks of Stiles, of how he wishes he was safe. How he wishes he could kiss him one last time…

 

 

**Stiles**

A stapler. That’s what he has to work with.

The office was full of stuff, surprisingly unless stuff, so nothing he could actually work with.

He’d found the stapler in the third desk drawer under a pile of old reports, deemed it worthy ammo, and bolted from the room, determined to find Derek in time.

 

Until now, everything’s been blurred, flatlining, like there’s nothing there without him. But now Derek’s here, now Stiles knows he’s alive, it’s like everything’s meted away, leaving him with nothing but a kind of divine clarity that makes everything seem so much simpler.

 

He weighs the stapler in his hands, judges the distance between him and Matt’s outstretched hand. The gun’s pointing away from Derek, but getting dangerously close.

Stiles takes a deep breath, aims, then throws it.

 

The stapler hits it’s target with a satisfying crack, sending both of them flying somewhere on their right, hidden away under the debris in the hallway.

Stiles doesn’t have time to find either of them.

 

There’s a second when Matt looks confused, pure shock punctuated by the slight _‘o’_ of his lips. But then he’s angry, enraged; madness threatening to spill over the surface.

With a strength Stiles didn’t know he possessed, Matt slams into him, sends him crashing into the wall behind him.

‘You little shit!’ Matt screams, spit flying from his mouth. ‘You couldn’t stay out of my way once, could you? _Months_ I’ve been planning. Researching fires, planning them, _starting_ them. I was going to burn you. Both of you. I wanted you to know how it feels to lose someone. I wanted the beautiful fucking irony of Derek Hale dying in his own fucking house.

‘But you had to ruin it, didn’t you? Couldn’t leave well enough alone.’

His chest heaving, Matt takes a few laboured breaths, stares right into Stiles’ eyes. ‘So I’m going to kill him,’ he points at Derek. ‘Then, I’m going to kill them all. Right in front of you. Then you’ll know what it’s like to watch your family burn.’

 

There’s a sickening moment when Stiles is sure Matt’s going to kill him, right there, in front of Derek. But then Matt has him by the scruff of the neck, hands shaking against the wet material, clawing at the skin on his chest, and it’s almost expected when Stiles’ feet lave the floor, hang uselessly in mid-air. What is a surprise is the way he’s thrown at the opposite wall, arm trapped under him as he smashes into the concrete, an odd snapping sound ripping through the echoing hallway.

 

 

**Derek**

Things distort and blur in front of him, swimming like he’s underwater.

At first, everything’s numb, cold and empty and broken. But then he catches a scent, one that had been drowned in gasoline, suddenly sharp and strong to his senses, pulling things back, dripping reality into him like morphine.

He hears a heartbeat thud softly at the back of his mind, warming him, calming him, focusing him.

 

Little by little, the pain fades away, the wounds heal, the fog clears. Everything around him is deteriorating, but it’s like his world is slowing, stilling around him.

Distantly, he hears Matt screaming, advancing on him again. From somewhere far away he sees him pull a knife. But he’s still disorientated, still too consumed with Stiles’ scent to do anything about it.

Matt’s on him before he’s even managed to stand up.

 

 

**Stiles**

Stiles knows when Derek catches his scent, can see it in the way his eyes focus, his breathing evens out.

For a second, Stiles collapses against the wall, tries to haul himself up from where he’d been thrown. His left arm’s broken, hanging limply by his side, but he pays no attention to it; he’s too overwhelmed by the pull in his stomach, the sudden tight but entirely free feeling in his chest, the smell of burning wood and damp leaves.

 

Save Derek.

That’s the only thing he can think, the only thing he knows he _has_ to do. It’s like a burning in his mind, a fire he can’t put out.

He sees Matt move, like in the movies; his actions too big, too dramatic, too predictable. He lunges at Derek, who’s still slumped on the ground, somehow straddles his chest, keeps him pinned to the floor.

The knife flashes from somewhere on his right, coming to rest near Derek’s throat.

 

That’s when Stiles’ eyes flicker to the right, to the space under the table left out in the hall. That’s when he remembers how he felt when Derek lost control; scared, fragile, unsure.

He makes his decision in less than three seconds, drops, and rolls himself over to the table, scrambling under it for dear life. Because last time something like this happened, all he wanted to do was break.

But now? Now he wants to do the breaking.

 

 

**Derek**

He’s aware enough that Stiles’ scent is more than just his anchor. It’s determination, adrenaline, control. It’s power. It’s strength.

It’s everything Derek wishes _he_ was.

 

The acrid smell of wolfsbane burns his nostrils, makes his eyes water as the knife presses into his throat. Skin tears, Matt’s wrist brushes the space he’s about to rip open.

Derek cries out, once; more like a whimper than a scream. Because there’s only one thought running through his mind, and it’s crushing him straight to the core.

He needs Stiles. And this time, he’s not afraid to admit it.

 

 

**Stiles**

His hand finds cool metal just as Derek cries out, sending shivers down his already sodden spine.

He doesn’t hesitate when his finger finds the trigger. Hands steadier than they’ve ever been, Stiles drags his good arm round and points it at Matt.

He has a second to take aim, to mark the spot he needs to hit. Matt’s arm moves slowly, cutting deeper into Derek’s skin, and Stiles knows he doesn’t have time to think about this.

He takes one breath. Let’s the emptiness take over. Then, he fires the gun.

 


	16. Allowed to be Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘So does that mean I’m allowed to stick around?’ she asks, winking at him.
> 
> Derek laughs, presses one last kiss on her forehead, holds her close for a moment.
> 
> ‘You’re pack,’ he says simply, nuzzling his face into her hair. ‘You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last 'official' chapter of this fic D: BUT DON'T WORRY! I'm writing an epilogue that'll be up soon! 
> 
> I was a little experimental with this, but I hope you still like it. I know it's not long, but it felt right to me. I like it short. It's how I always imagined it. I hope you all feel the same way.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments, and as always, ENJOY!

**Derek**

For a split second, Matt looks surprised; eyes wide, mouth open, vulnerable, soft.

Then his face slackens, his body sags, and he crumples to the floor, half on top of Derek, numb and still, eyes unblinking, unfocused, dead.

 

Derek hurts. His whole body feels heavy, weighed down by something other than Matt’s lifeless form. When he moves, it’s like every muscle is screaming at him to stop, every atom in his body rejecting the motion.

Stiles is staring blankly at his hand, the gun pulling heavily on it, almost tipping from his fingertips. His hands weren’t shaking before, but now they’re uncontrollable, trembling more than Derek’s ever seen them.

 

Slowly, Derek reaches out for the gun, and takes it, puts it down on the table next to them. Stiles doesn’t make any move to stop him. He keeps staring, lips slightly parted, eyes dark.

Without a word, Derek pulls Stiles into him, holds him, like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. His hands aren’t tentative anymore, their lungs don’t hitch when they touch; everything’s sure, steady, confident. Every gentle hand through Stiles’ hair is weighted, anchoring. Every heartbeat fits in time.

 

It doesn’t take Stiles long to start crying, his breath hot on Derek’s chest, his hands clenched into his shirt. Derek doesn’t make a sound; makes no move to stop him. He lets Stiles cry, let’s everything settle, content to just rub circles into his back until his tears stop, the scent of his sadness dying with each slowly steadying breath.

 

 

**Stiles**

He feels numb right up to the moment when Derek touches him. After that, everything’s immediate, final, crushing.

Stiles doesn’t know why he starts crying. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off; slow, agonising fear and relief setting in. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that someone’s life, no matter who's it is, is over because of him.

 

He’d be happy to stand all day with Derek, to let his hands hold him together, smooth his rough edges, calm his racing mind. He’d be happy to stay like this forever, safe and whole and happy.

Eventually though, Derek pulls away; takes his hand and leads him into the office where he found the stapler, sits him on one of the chairs.

‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he says gently, rubbing his thumbs across Stiles’ cheek. ‘But I have to go and let the others out. Will you be alright here for a minute?’

Stiles nods, but it’s tentative, unconvincing enough for Derek to lean down and press his lips onto his forehead.

 

Stiles closes his eyes at the contact, takes a breath that melts away into the air. ‘Go,’ he says softly, nuzzling Derek’s chest for a second before pushing him gently towards the door.

Derek doesn’t take his eyes off him until he has to.

 

 

**Derek**

The moment he leaves Stiles, everything’s a blur.

He catches Erica when she launches herself at him, acknowledges Boyd’s clap on the back. He even smiles at Jackson, who manages a weak smile in return.

 

John finds Stiles in the office, calls an ambulance straight away, tells Stiles’ it’ll be alright. Stiles doesn’t believe him, even though he says he does.

Derek lets the ambulance staff check him over, let them prod him until they have no choice but to let him go.

He follows Stiles to the hospital, sits beside him as they set his arm, stitch up some of the deeper cuts on his body.

Stiles doesn’t cry again.

 

After that, it doesn’t take long for things to get back to normal. Well, as normal as they can be, anyway.

Stiles and Derek give their statements, Matt’s body’s moved from the station, taken to the morgue down town. There aren’t any repercussions for Stiles, who finds it hard to find his feet for a few days. Everyone agrees it was self defence. No charge. No trial. Just closure. That’s more than enough for Derek.

 

Needless to say, they have to let John in on the werewolf secret; especially as Derek survived their kidnapping without so much as a scratch. It was a shock, and Derek reckons there’s still a part of him that doesn’t believe it, but he’s trying, and that’s why everything’s a lot easier than expected.

 

Stiles still gets nightmares; nights when he wakes up drenched in sweat, screaming Derek’s name.

For at least a week after he shot Matt, Derek sleeps on the couch at his house, never too far to come when he calls, when he’s shaking so hard from a nightmare he can’t coordinate his limbs enough to get out of bed.

On those nights, Derek finds himself curled into Stiles, his arm draped over his waist, rubbing comforting circles into his hands until he falls asleep again.

 

Derek doesn’t think John minds. It’s not like they’re doing anything more than sleeping. If anything, Derek thinks he actually _likes_ having Derek around. It’s nice; they make small talk, watch TV together. If Derek was the sentimental type, he’d say it’s like having a family again. But he’s not, and it’s way more than that. It’s like a piece of him’s whole again; that space gouged out by Kate suddenly full, brimming over, warm.

Derek feels like he’s got his life back. He feels truly content for the first time in years.

He just wishes Stiles would feel the same.

 

 

**Stiles**

He still gets nightmares, even when the memory of the bullet hitting Matt stops being the only thing he sees.

There are nights he wakes up screaming; terrified and out of his mind. There are nights he thinks he’ll never sleep again. But those are the nights Derek holds him closest, keeps him safe.

It’s hard, and he’s going to have to work through a lot to get to where he wants to be. But whatever happens, he knows Derek will be there. And even though it doesn’t stop the aching in his chest, it makes him happy. And he’ll take hopelessly happy over lonely any day.

 

 

**Derek**

‘When’s the last time we did this?’

Rachel sips her beer, stares out at the city beneath them, her face unreadable.

Derek shakes his head, keeps his eyes focused on the ocean of lights fading out into the distance.

‘I don’t remember,’ he says, rubbing his hands together.

Rachel hums.

‘I miss it,’ she says slowly. ‘You were always so happy out here…’

 

She lapses into silence, leaving Derek to decipher the meaning behind her words.

It’s true, he does love it out here. He loves the way he can be in civilisation, but separate from it at the same time. He loves the way the sun sets behind the hills in the distance. He loves the freedom, the feeling of flying. But he’s pretty sure she’s not talking about the balcony. There’s a weight to her words that alludes to something else, something Derek can’t quite put his finger on. So he sits, waits for her to continue, knowing that whatever it is, she’ll let it go eventually.

 

‘I’ve had a lot of time to think,’ she says, her voice cracking a little at the end. ‘When you were… when you weren’t here, I had a lot of empty space. And I literally lost my mind when you disappeared… and when I found out he had Stiles too… I wanted to be with you so badly, but I couldn’t do anything. Nobody knew where you were. There wasn’t even a ransom call…'

She sniffs sadly, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, puts her bottle on the floor.

‘It got me thinking about this,’ she gestures inside, ‘about us. Because I love you so much, Derek… But I don’t love you the way he does.’

 

She doesn’t say a name. She doesn’t need to. They both know who she’s talking about.

Derek scrubs a hand down his face. ‘Rachel, I-‘

‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she interrupts, moving over to sit in front of him. ‘Because it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. You can’t help who you love, Derek, any more than I can.’

‘I know,’ Derek says, reaching out to take her hand. ‘But I want to. I need to say sorry. You never asked for this, and you deserve more. You deserve more than me, Rachel. You always have.’

‘Derek…’

She leans in, presses a kiss onto his knuckles, lets her cheek rest against them. ‘When are you going to wake up and realise that you’re allowed to be happy?’

Derek sighs, looks down the the floor. ‘I don’t know.’

 

‘Hey,’ Rachel says, tilting his chin up. ‘It’s okay to do something for yourself once in a while. It doesn’t change who you are.’

She smiles, cups his face with her hand. ‘And I know you have a hard time talking about stuff like this. I know you hate complicated…’

She takes a deep breath, sighs it out, pats his cheek gently.

‘So I’m going to make it easy for you,’ she says softly. ‘Tomorrow, I’m going to call a removal van, and I’m going to move out, give you space. I have a spare room at the studio I can use while I sort something out…’

She pauses, then adds, ‘I want you to be happy, Derek. What we’ve had is irreplaceable, incredible, even. But it’s not right. Not anymore.’

 

Derek doesn’t know what to say. He’s so overwhelmed by her, by how _perfect_ she is; not just in appearance, but as a person. Whatever happens, Derek never wants to lose her.

He doesn’t speak, but something must show on his face, because she smiles and tucks herself into his side, rests her head against his shoulder.

‘Talk to Isaac,’ Derek says quietly after a while. ‘He’s hates living alone.

‘And you’re not moving out tomorrow,’ he adds, pulling her in closer. ‘You’re staying until things are sorted. Whatever happens, this is your home. Nothing will ever change that.’

‘So does that mean I’m allowed to stick around?’ she asks, winking at him.

Derek laughs, presses one last kiss on her forehead, holds her close for a moment.

‘You’re pack,’ he says simply, nuzzling his face into her hair. ‘You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.’

 

*

 

He has everyone over at the loft a week later, once everything’s settled down, once normality’s started seeping back into their lives like a sedative; lulling them into a kind of dozy contentment.

He invites everyone, even John. Derek thinks it’s the least he could do.

 

‘Anyone want another drink?’ he asks once they’ve all eaten, a sleepy haze fallen over the room.

At least five hands go up, one of them Stiles’, who jumps up and follows him into the kitchen.

‘You don’t have to,’ Derek says as Stiles tugs some of the bottles out of his hands. ‘I can manage.’

‘I know you can,’ Stiles replies. ‘But I want to. I want to help…’

 

Stiles’ eyes glaze over, drop to somewhere on the floor.

‘Hey.’ Derek’s hands are soft when they reach out for his chin, his words almost whispered. ‘Hey. Look at me.’

Stiles’ head moves slowly, his eyes flickering to Derek’s at the last second, dark and pained and somehow pleading. His teeth drag over his bottom lip like an apology, catching the skin as he bites down.

‘You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened,’ Derek says, running a thumb along Stiles’ jaw. ‘You saved my life. That’s all that matters, okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Stiles replies faintly. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘So what’s up?’

Stiles smiles softly, shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

Derek smiles back, pulls Stiles in by the waist, presses their foreheads together. ‘Try again. I’m a werewolf, remember? I know when you’re lying.’

‘’M not lying,’ Stiles replies. ‘It just doesn’t matter.’

‘It matters to me.’

 

Stiles sighs, closes his eyes as they start to sway very slowly, keeping steady rhythm with each other. When he speaks, his voice is low; slow and measured.

‘Do you remember when we were in the basement, and I told you that if you found a way out, you had to run, even if it meant leaving me behind?’

Derek nods. ‘Yeah.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I should be saying that now?’

 

Derek stops dead, pulls his forehand away, surprised to find Stiles looking straight at him, eyes shining with tears.

‘When are you going to get it into your head?’ Derek says, wiping a tear off his cheek with the pad of his thumb. ‘I. Am. Never. Leaving. You. Behind.’

He pauses between each word, lets the emphasis make his point for him. Stiles just shakes his head, looks away.

‘You should, Derek,’ he says. ‘You have a nice thing here. It’s normal. I can’t fuck it up if-‘

 

Derek cuts him off the only way he knows how.

He kisses Stiles, slow and delicate, putting as much of himself into it as he can; giving himself over, letting Stiles know that’s he’s safe, that he doesn’t have to be afraid. When they break away, it’s perfect, like nothing in the world exists apart from them.

Stiles’ lips are parted, swollen, his eyes still closed, even after Derek’s opened his.

 

‘Is that how you’re going to shut me up from now on?’ he asks, blinking, his voice low. ‘Because I would totally be on board with that.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ Derek replies, already hating the loss of contact. He doesn’t tell Stiles that he never wants him to shut up, that his voice is like music to him. He just nudges his hands somewhere up the back of his shirt, leans in to press his face into the crook of Stiles' neck.

Stiles laughs. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘But you love me,’ Derek mummers, peppering kisses across his collar bone.

There’s a slight pause, a moment when Stiles’ heartbeat picks up, his good hand find its way round Derek’s neck. Then, he rests his cheek against the top of Derek’s head, closes his eyes and murmurs, ‘Yeah, I do. I really do.’


	17. It Never Really is 'Just Coffee.'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a laugh and a roll of his eyes, Scott picks up the empty plate that once had cookies on it, gives them both a look that could be endearing. 
> 
> He pats Derek gently on the shoulder, sighs like he’s proven a point.
> 
> ‘What did I tell you, Derek?’ he says, turning to go. ‘It never really is ‘just coffee.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys. This is it. The last chapter. I won't lie, I'm a little emotional. This fic has been my baby for the last seven months, and I could never have imagined it going the way it has. I'll write a proper thank you at the end, but for now, I'll just let you read it, and enjoy the ride. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think in the comments, and as always, ENJOY!

**After**

‘You want another drink?’

Derek picks up his empty cup, leans over to grab Stiles’.

‘Depends,’ Stiles replies, tilting his head back lazily, exposing the pale skin of his neck. ‘Do I have to move to get it?’

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Derek says, ducking to kiss his cheek, lingering there a second longer than he usually does to run his lips down to Stiles' collar bone. 'I don't mind getting them.'

Stiles smiles, lips pulling apart slightly when it widens, expanding into a smile saved especially for Derek. ‘Knew there was a reason I love you.’

 

Derek laughs, rolls back against the cushions.

‘So what d’you want?' he asks, blinking innocently. 'Double expresso?’

‘Oh ha ha,’ Stiles says, rolling his eyes before sighing, and adding, ‘I don’t know. Just tell Scott to make whatever.’

He moves over, presses his forehead against Derek’s, kisses the tip of his nose gently in the way he knows Derek likes. His eyes stare straight into Derek’s; round and golden and so full of life, Derek wonders how they ever manage to fall sleep. It feels like a lifetime when Stiles finally looks away and whispers, ‘Don’t be too long, though. I need my human oven with me at all times.’

‘I could just stay,’ Derek murmurs, lightly bopping their temples together. ‘I don’t like coffee that much anyway.’

Stiles snorts, then kisses him properly, long and deep; hands steady against Derek’s chest.

It’s the kind of kiss you give when you don’t care who’s watching, and when Stiles pulls away, he smiles at Derek, pats his cheek gently. ‘Just go get them, dumbass.’

 

Still grinning and slightly breathless, Derek gets up and makes his way to the counter, only turning back to Stiles twice before he finds himself face to face with Scott.

‘Derek,’ he says not missing a beat. ‘I swear to god, if you get a boner in here, I’ll never make you coffee again.’

‘Scott!’ Derek splutters as the lady behind him snickers. ‘I wasn’t- I mean, I didn’t- _Scott_!’

Scott shrugs, smiles blindingly and takes the lady’s order, leaving Derek to stare, red faced at the floor.

 

When she eventually moves away, Derek looks up, glaring.

‘I hate you,’ he says quietly, dropping his cup on the side. Scott winks at him, whisks the mugs away into the sink.

‘Aww, come on Der-bear, don’t be like that,’ he says, twirling a dish towel through his hands. ‘You know I’m your favourite.’

Derek huffs, rests elbows on the counter. ‘Yeah, sure.’

 

‘So what’ll it be this time?’ Scott asks, thrusting a plate of cookies into his hands. ‘The usual?’

‘For me, yeah,’ Derek replies, accepting the plate without complaint. ‘Stiles says make him whatever.’

Scott raises his eyebrows, smirks. ‘You know he’s gonna regret that, right?’

Derek laughs, shakes his head. ‘Just make sure it’s decaffeinated. Isaac’ll kill me if he hears I’ve let him near coffee.’

‘Eye Eye, Captain,’ Scott says, adding a little salute before ducking behind the coffee machine. ‘You can go back to making heart eyes at Stiles now. I’ll bring it over in a minute.’

‘I do _not_ make heart eyes,’ Derek grumbles, turning back to the seats.

Scott laughs. ‘Course you don’t.’

 

Shooting him a glare over his shoulder, Derek stalks back to their table, barely aware that his cheeks are still burning hot.

‘Ohh, I know _that_ look,’ Stiles says as Derek flops back onto the couch. ‘Either you just arrested someone, or Scott embarrassed you in front of the customers.’

‘Second one,’ Derek mutters, snuggling into his side, already calmer at the touch. Stiles laughs, runs a hand through his hair.

‘What’d he say?’

‘Told me not to get a boner in his shop,’ Derek mutters, closing his eyes briefly. He doesn’t say it, but he loves when Stiles touches him like that; like it’s natural. He loves it when Stiles takes control, is confident enough to know what Derek wants, and gives it to him. Stiles knows the planes of Derek’s skin as well as Derek knows his, knows all the ways Derek ticks, now to drive him mad. He can take Derek to the edge and back a thousand times, and _still_ leave him begging for more. It’s more than love, it’s instinct; blind, reckless, beautiful instinct. Derek wouldn’t have it any other way.

Stiles detaches himself, arranges himself into a better position.

'He’s such a spoil sport,’ he says quietly, eyes blazing. ‘Let’s give him something to talk about, shall we?’

 

Derek almost replies. Almost.

Before he can, Stiles throws himself onto his lap, kisses him hard, hands holding his jaw like a lifeline, lips slightly parted in a smile as someone wolf-whistles in the background.

Hands fumble as Stiles arranges his arms around Derek’s neck, his lips leaving Derek’s for a split second before they’re kissing again, this time soft, quick, gentle; nothing more than a whisper compared to the first one.

Derek can’t do anything but kiss back, brain completely overwhelmed with Stiles’ scent; his brain short-circuiting, blurred with static. He just does what he knows, forgetting, for a moment, the people around them.

When Stiles pulls away, it’s like he’s been submerged in icy water.

 

‘That… was fucking awesome,’ Stiles sighs eventually, slumping against Derek’s chest. ‘Let’s do it again sometime.’

‘Like you don’t do it every waking moment anyway.’

Derek turns his head, sees Scott standing there with two drinks and a look of disgust. He puts them down on their table, throws himself into the chair beside them.

‘And I thought I told you no boners,’ he adds, helping himself to a cookie. ‘It’s distasteful.’

Stiles smirks. ‘What can I say, Scotty. We like a challenge.’

Scott groans, bites into his cookie. ‘I got _that_. Your whole apartment smells like sex. It’s gross.’

‘You know you don’t _have_ to come over, right?’ Derek says, rolling his eyes. Scott just grins at him.

‘But if I didn’t I wouldn’t get any free food.’

‘It’s true, Derek,’ Stiles nods, shifting so he’s sitting sideways across Derek’s lap. ‘My fajitas are killer.’

‘Yeah, they are,’ Derek agrees, looping their hands together, pressing Stiles’ knuckles onto his lips.

Stiles grins, bites his lip in a way that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. ‘You really think so?’

Derek shrugs. ‘I love everything you make.’

 

Letting out an almighty _awwww_ , Stiles leans in and rubs their noses together, scrunches his face up, then kisses Derek’s cheek, snuggles back against his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world, his body warm and comforting against Derek’s.

Scott groans.

‘What?’ Derek asks, looking up from running his lips over Stiles’ collar bone. Scott shrugs, winces.

‘You’re just so…’

‘So what?’ Stiles replies, kicking his feet up onto the couch. Scott swats them away, puts a spare stool there instead.

‘So… _cute_ ,’ he finally says, shaking his head.

Stiles doesn’t spare him any mercy when he throws a cushion at his face.

 

‘Hey! What was that for?’ Scott splutters, wrestling it back to the couch.

‘You know Derek doesn’t like being called cute,’ Stiles says, going back to his original position. ‘Just like Allison doesn’t like being called ‘babe.’’

‘Oh my god, that was one time,’ Scott groans, dropping his head into his hands. ‘Can we let it go already?’

‘Sorry bro,’ Stiles says almost sympathetically. ‘Never gonna happen. But I forget,’ he hums thoughtfully. ‘How many days did you have to sleep on the couch after that little argument.’

‘I think it was six,’ Derek pipes up, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist just to feel the contact.

‘Oh, really?’ Stiles muses. ‘I thought it was seven.’

Derek snorts. ‘No, it was definitely six. Allison couldn’t take the puppy eyes any more, remember?’

Stiles grins, leans in, pecks his cheek, murmurs, ‘Oh yeah. I remember it now.’

 

‘Right, that’s it,’ Scott says, glaring at them. ‘I hate you both. I knew I should have never made that coffee the day you met.’

‘What coffee?’ Derek asks, frowning.

Stiles grins. ‘The coffee that made us fall in love, remember?’

‘I err…’

 

If he’s honest, Derek doesn’t remember much from that day. It went by in a whirl of angry blonde girls, rushed phone calls, and Stiles’ blood. He probably wouldn’t have remembered if he'd won the lottery.

‘Really think back,’ Stiles encourages him, his huge eyes wider than usual. ‘I think I actually hugged you after you got it.’

 

And there it is. That little reminder of touch that brings it all flooding back. The hug, the coffee, the sleepless nights that followed.

‘Oh my god, it wasn’t the hazelnut latte was it?’ he says incredulously, raising his eyebrows.

Stiles smiles, laughs at the doubtful look on Derek’s face. ‘The very same.’

‘But,’ Derek splutters, shaking his head. ‘That was just coffee!’

 

It’s said on impulse; something he’s got into the habit of churning out when he doesn’t know what else to say. He’d said it to Scott that day, he’d repeated it to himself a million times after. It’s just coffee, because coffee doesn’t mean anything. It’s what happens around the coffee that makes it special. It’s the hugs and the whispered thanks from ducked heads that makes it memorable.

It’s just coffee. That is, until it’s not.

 

Derek tries to put these thoughts into words, but it’s impossible. It just turns to incoherent mumbling beside Stiles’ tilted head; red faced, breathless static behind his eyes.

Scott seems to understand though, probably knows exactly what he’s trying to say, and more. Because it’s Scott, and he knows everything.

With a laugh and a roll of his eyes, Scott picks up the empty plate that once had cookies on it, gives them both a look that could be endearing.

He pats Derek gently on the shoulder, sighs like he’s proven a point.

‘What did I tell you, Derek?’ he says, turning to go. ‘It never really is ‘just coffee.’’

 

*

 

The room’s quiet by the time the film finishes later that night; everyone still and quiet, calmer than they could ever be awake.

Erica and Boyd are curled on the floor, Erica tucked tight under Boyd’s arm like it’s made specifically to fit her. Scott and Lydia are sprawled out across a some pillows they’d cobbled together, both slightly leaning into each other, seeking a touch they would normally have. Even Isaac and Rachel are close, stretched out across the opposite couch, their hands loosely wound together, tentatively going somewhere they’re not even sure they’re allowed to go.

And then there’s him and Stiles, clinging to each other like a lifeline, like an anchor keeping themselves steady.

Having Stiles like this is more than natural now; it’s like a piece of him.

On nights when Stiles stays at Scott’s, or when Derek has to stay late at the office, it’s like someone’s taken a hacksaw to one of his arms. Stiles is his everything, his reason to breathe. He’s every romantic cliche, and a million more. He’s Derek’s soulmate, and even if their lives crashed together like poorly coordinated satellites set on the same path, Derek’s sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because he spent a lot of time thinking about the family he’d lost, the things he left behind. He spent a long time trying to find home again; trying to rebuild on the shaky foundations left from the fire. He tried to start a new life by throwing a blanket over the old. He never stopped to think about the possibility of letting go.

And now he has, it’s like he’s flying. The pain’s still there, just like it is in Stiles, but together, they’re learning to be okay again, and that’s all that matters to him.

Because for Derek, home isn’t a just a place anymore. It’s more than that, more primal; a scent he’ll always catch, a feeling he can’t explain.

After all these years of searching, he’s finally figured it out. Home isn’t a place. It’s a person. And as he sits, watching his pack, his _family_ , sleep content and happy around him, he thinks that he just might have found it here with Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end. I'll admit, when I first started writing this back in May, I'd only been writing fic for a month. I never thought I'd write something this long or this complex. But I did, and it was an amazing journey. It's the longest thing I've ever written, and I know that I've learnt so much along the way. 
> 
> I want to thank all of you that stuck with me through this, all of you who commented on every chapter. I want to thank you for giving me the confidence to do what I love, and hopefully, do it well. I love you guys. Without you, this wouldn't have even happened. 
> 
> This started out as a tiny prompt that I wrote in a hour, and it honestly turned into the most incredible journey. I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you thank you thank you *hugs*


End file.
